


In His Footsteps

by srsly_yes



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-22
Updated: 2008-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:42:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srsly_yes/pseuds/srsly_yes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of silence, House and Wilson meet at a medical conference, but Wilson is more distant than ever. House decides to investigate and discovers Wilson has changed, becoming more like him. Why?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freeze Out & Chapter 1 of In His Footsteps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally, Freeze Out was written as a one-shot, but due to reader interest it was expanded into "In His Footsteps," and is now the prologue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was written at the beginning of season 5 before "The Social Contract." It includes my version of Wilson's LLB, Jonathan where he and Wilson had a falling out. It's OOC, but was fun to write at the time. Jonathan's story is [A Glassful of Shattered Hope](http://archiveofourown.org/works/66578), (slight allusions to DCE) which should be read before chapter 8.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** Not mine, never will be.  
> **Betas:** Ever sharp-eyed and supportive, bishojo_kitsune, bookfan85, and leakey_lover.
> 
> Also, I want to thank hwshipper for creating Wilson's salt-of-the-earth oncology secretary, Nora, from [Memoirs of an Oncology Department Secretary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/48919), who was the inspiration for peppery admin, Bruce.

.

###  **Freeze Out - Prologue:**

Hopkins extended an invitation for Wilson to deliver the keynote address at the national medical conference. An honor he could do without, but the medical director dropped the airline ticket down on his desk as if it was an edict, “I’ve let you slide on public appearances, but this means a lot to the hospital. Trinity can spare you for a few days. Take Dr. West along if you like, but you’re going.”

Two weeks later, his speech met with enthusiasm and a bevy of questions, but Wilson knew the gauntlet wasn’t over. He couldn’t get away fast enough from his eager colleagues, and as the doctors melted away, he fell prey to the man leaning on a cane.

It was awkward meeting face-to-face. Neither wanted to extend a hand for fear one would reject the other. House saw icy resolve. It meant more to Wilson to give in than for him, so he spoke first.

“You look ten years older than when I last saw you.”

“How odd, because it’s been five since the last time we spoke.” The glacier cracked, “I see you haven’t changed.” It was a momentary spy hole into the past that sealed back up as Wilson transformed into granite.

The wall of silence froze both of them. There was nothing left to say. House’s eyes betrayed sadness as he turned and walked away.

West came rushing up, “Sorry Wilson, was that House? I got tied up with hotel checkout and our air confirmation.” He lowered his voice, “Did he ask questions?”

Wilson held himself erect and walked deliberately slow to disguise the telltale limp, “No, and we didn’t talk about anything personal. He’s a curious son-of-a-bitch, but he doesn’t suspect, and I don’t want him ever to find out, got it?”

 

###  **In His Footsteps - Part 1**

 

Airport terminals – another way to say “Obstacle course for cripples.”

House checked the departure schedule against his pass. His commuter flight was at gate 33B. Any further, and he might as well walk home. He slung the backpack over his shoulder, flexed and curled his fingers around the handle of his cane, and continued trudging forward.

What a lousy day. He began with unfounded expectations. The way he went about implementing most plans. He plotted it all in his head: Call in sick to Cuddy, hop a flight to Baltimore, get face-to-face with Wilson, talk about good times, fan long dead embers into flame. __

_You’re a damned fool. _

When he finally had his chance to look Wilson in the eye, what did he do? Tell him in his pithy way that he looked like crap. _Nice going you moron._ So what if Wilson was no longer youthful and his face resembled mashed sardines on toast? He didn’t have to say it out loud. For one moment, one blink of the flight board he saw a softening look around cool brown eyes, and then it fled into furrows and creases that never were in his face before he left Plainsboro.

Why was he shocked at the change in Wilson? The last time they talked was five years ago.

Sure. When they were together, there were ups and downs, disagreements, give and take where Wilson always gave and he always took. That was par for the relationship. But, despite all that, they were becoming a couple. Two boulders knocking against each other, grinding sharp points into rounded edges with identical needs and wants.

House checked the upcoming gate. It was for his flight and none too soon because it was close to boarding time. He found a seat near the outlying border, facing the pilgrims flowing past, seeking their holy shrine and welcoming pew of black plastic and chrome.

But as he watched the waves of strangers, he did not see.

* * *

_Old Technicolor film with special effects ran through his head at double time._

Evenings with Wilson beside him on the sofa, and more and more often in his bed. The fresh laundered scent of Wilson’s clothes wafting from a chest of drawers when he searched for a pair of his socks. Closets bursting with so many suits that when House opened the door he was afraid George Zimmer would jump out and say “I guarantee it."

They began discussing the likelihood of a more permanent relationship where Wilson would give up his nomadic existence and move in with him. Everything was working for them this time, until…until wrapped up in his own brand of selfishness, after losing three patients in a row, House began drinking. Long and hard drinking.

_More images, faster now. Lightening fast like a professional card sharp dealing a deck._

Wilson lectured. Wilson nagged, “House, stop doing this. Can't you see what you're drinking is doing to us.”

House laughed, “Yeah, look whose talking, wonder boy. Losing three patients in three weeks would make you the medical messiah of oncology.”

That remark earned him two full weeks of solitary drinking time as Wilson slammed the door behind him, disappearing into one of his favored enclaves that included turn down bed and room service.

Cuddy finally learned the knack of couples counseling and brought them together, or maybe it was just because they really couldn’t do without each other. They began talking, and Wilson was once again the man who bought, brought and came to dinner. House was back to solving his medical mysteries.

He was cutting back on Maker’s Mark, but not enough, and his Vicodin dosage was slowly overtaking the riverbanks of his drug tolerance.

_A magician yanking a fountain of vividly painted scarves twirled and flowed from his hat. Watch out ladies and gentleman. Don’t get too close if you want to preserve the illusion. _

An evening in an old world steak house was planned for a Friday night. House should have recognized a trick up Wilson’s unrolled sleeves.

Over candlelight, fine wine and two-inch steaks hiding under moist slices of truffle Wilson made his offer. It was more of a plea, “House, we’re in a rut that’s not working for either of us. We need a change so that we can change.”

“Isn’t it enough that I change my shorts for you? Neither of us is capable of change.”

Laying his knife and fork down on the plate, “I’m proposing a change of scenery for us both. A time out. A chance to reboot and consider how we relate to each other. I’ve been talking to Cuddy. She’s willing for one or both of us to take sabbaticals and work at different hospitals in separate cities. Throw ourselves into completely different environments and see how much we miss each other." Wilson scrutinized his plate. "Where I can’t prescribe or enable you.”  
   
Different hospitals? As ideas went, House wasn’t about to warm up to one that left his bed cold. “When did you become a closet romance reader? Separate? Why?! Prove that ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder?’ Haven’t you heard of ‘out of sight, out of your crazy lovin’ mind?’”

Now absorbed in playing with the stem of his wine glass, Wilson didn’t look up, “Yes, well maybe it’s about time to find out if it’s one or the other.”

He felt as if he downed a cocktail prepared with two parts jealousy to one part anger with a splash of hurt.

This time it was House’s turn to walk, or limp away in a huff. He wiped his mouth in disgust on the linen napkin and threw it onto the matching cloth. The wine glasses almost tipped over as he made a clumsy retreat from the elegant table, “Clever Wilson. A chance to keep me on the hook, while you find a new lover on the side. Well, do what you want, but don’t tell me what to do or how to act. Go off on your quest, Sir Lancelot, but don’t come running back when he or she has enough of you.”

Wilson’s eyes were bright with pools of unshed tears. God, those dark brown eyes dripped with sincerity. He felt like he kicked a puppy.

No. What he did was worse. He kicked his best friend and lover out of his life.

“Don't you know me by now? I’m not moving out of town to start a new life. I'm happy with the one I have.

"On Sunday I'm riding with a group of hot biker chicks. You can come by while I’m out to pick up your clothes and beloved blow dryer. Leave the key on the coffee table.”  
_  
The off-key music of a carousel slowing, and the sparkling overhead mirrors reflecting a kaleidoscope of cotton candy colors freeze on wandering white-legged tourists. If you don't like reality, cover your eyes. _  
   
That was that. Two people irritated with each other, and not willing to budge.

Wilson stuck to his plan and Cuddy found a hospital in the Midwest that was willing to trade doctors for six months.  
   
They spoke once, maybe two times during the first months of the separation, but what began as a six-month sabbatical stretched into five long years.

The first half-year self-destructive forces ruled. A midnight hurricane that steals landmarks and alters shorelines before the sun's rays uncover the mutilation.

He remembered little during that period. After Wilson went out of town, he became fast friends with his liquor cabinet.

Wilson left messages a couple of times. Torch songs asking for a second chance when he returned, but not relenting on the length of exile.

House didn’t call back. He wanted Wilson to show up on his doorstep, apology and credit card in one hand, Chinese and beer in the other. He would accept nothing less than a three dimensional Wilson radiating body heat, brushing a sandpaper cheek against his neck, and a greedy mouth exploring his own.

Instead, he just looked at the tumbler full of bourbon and chatted up the ever-lowering contents in his best Bogie impersonation, “It’s you and me, kid until Wilson returns.”

His memory was blurry about another phone call around the time the deportation treaty was expected to expire. At least, he thought there was a call. His love affair with alcohol was at a record high or at rock bottom. It was a matter of perspective. He mentally shrugged, maybe he was hallucinating that there was a message, like what he was doing with patient’s symptoms during that time.

Losing patients, but racking up lawsuits. It was time for him to change, and Wilson wasn’t there to see it.

Wilson never came back to Princeton-Plainsboro. Cuddy gave him penetrating looks before sending out an announcement that the former department head was not returning to the teaching hospital, deciding to pursue his career in the Chicago area. The email ended with formal wording to the affect that Wilson was wished much success in his new position, would be sorely missed, and posting for his replacement would begin the following Monday.

So what did he expect from his foray today? Wilson to fall into his arms? No, but not the stony silence either. He’d never seen Wilson quite like this. The warmth from the eyes closed off. Lips tight - forbidding bitterness and anger to escape.

What happened?

Now he knew they both changed. Was he in any way responsible?

* * *

A blip in the human slipstream unfolded in front of him, arresting his attention away from his thoughts. A young man with the harnessed energy of all the solar panels in Las Vegas zipped through the crowd on the verge of missing his flight. He clipped off people like a motorist racing home from work on a Friday afternoon, dodging and weaving between busy foot traffic. Apparently, for one man the near miss came too close, causing him to stumble and lose his balance, but his traveling companion caught and steadied him. House stared as the vignette transpiring in front him. The stumbler behaved ungrateful, even truculent as the hero of the day appeared supplicating and solicitous. He couldn’t hear them from this distance, but he watched with a mixture of uneasiness and fascination.

House stood up as the announcement of his flight buzzed through the PA system, but it was coincidental. He rose to get a better view of the two men starring in the silent movie in front of him. After a short dialog the irritated man nodded, and they continued walking together, or rather the good-hearted schmuck walked slowly to best match the uneven gait of the hostile man next to him.

Memories flooded back. That was exactly what Wilson used to do for him. The woman’s voice was again announcing the flight as House stood there indecisively. He couldn’t decide if he should satisfy his curiosity, miss his flight and follow them, or digest what he observed. It was definitely a form of déjà vu. It was an ass backwards version of “A Christmas Carol.”

The luckless hero looked and dressed similarly to him. Jeans, and a loose shirt over a t-shirt. Tall and slim, but much younger. Dark hair with no signs of gray.

It was the other man, with the temper of Scrooge that resonated with his own irascible personality.

And, it was none other than Wilson.

House closed his eyes, watching a replay in his head of the buckling leg and near-fall, uttering a phrase that he would never say out loud to Wilson, “Oh God. I’m sorry, Jimmy.”

The two men were almost out of sight, but moving slow enough for even House to catch up. He bowed his head as he leaned both hands on his cane and thought. While considering the pros and cons in his mind, there was a final call for boarding. _Damn_, another reason presented for missing the flight. As the passengers walked up the ramp, the odds were shortening by the moment that his seatmate would be a sniveling or screaming child.

Still, he weighed his choices. Be hasty or take it slow?

Straightening up, he turned toward the wall of windows framing the mural of cheerful colors painted across the side of the jet.

He walked to the flight attendant and handed over his ticket.

No doubt about it, five years ago House would have acted on impulse and Wilson would have stood stoically by and accepted his humble status as master enabler, but that was then.

This was now.


	2. Freeze Out & Chapter 1 of In His Footsteps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was written at the beginning of season 5 before The Social Contract. This story includes my version of Wilson's LLB, Jonathan where he and Wilson had a falling out. It's OOC, but was fun to write at the time. Jonathan's story is [A Glassful of Shattered Hope](http://archiveofourown.org/works/66578), (slight allusions to DCE) and should be read (with a grain of salt) before chapter 8.

.

 

After checking their bags, West joined Wilson as they navigated the terminal. From past experience, pleasantries would not be traded as they passed kiosks, shops and restaurants. The oncologist was concentrating on the polished floors and busy crowds as if he was picking his way through panicked cattle mired in slippery muck.

Today wasn’t going to be a day for lucky breaks either, and West wasn’t going to breathe easy until he dropped Wilson off at his condo. Maybe not even then. He wanted to check how the beer and liquor inventory was fairing to gauge if the House sighting was going to affect Wilson’s drinking.  
   
First, he was unable to run interference to keep House away, and now the Gods saw fit for them to board their plane at a gate that didn’t show up on GPS. They had more than an hour before the plane’s departure, but he could feel Wilson’s displeasure radiating off him before he heard him muttering, “Where the hell is gate 37? At the end of the fucking universe?”

No, not a good sign. His friend’s dry wit could fit into a mummified rat’s ass and still be spacious enough to accommodate a bonus room of sarcasm.

They were into the '30’s' when some crazy lunatic came speeding past, cutting Wilson in mid-stride when he was unable to stop. Fortunately, as soon as West spotted the human bullet he instinctively grabbed onto his friend’s arm. As he predicted, Wilson stumbled, but the additional support prevented him from sprawling onto the floor. A rosy blush suffused Wilson’s face as he realized he came close to falling. West held on until he was assured that he regained his footing.

Knowing beforehand that he was going to regret the question, he asked, “Hey, that guy deserves a speeding ticket. Sit down, and let me get a whee—“

“No.” Wilson stepped away, smoothed his suit, and straightened his tie. “I can make it through this fucking airport without a fucking wheelchair. I've had my fucking fill of them.”

West waited silently, slowly counting to ten. He’d witnessed this before. He swallowed his own annoyance. It wasn’t as if he didn’t get it. Speaking as if he didn’t have a care in the world, “There’s only four more fucking gates to go. Are you fucking ready?”

Wilson picked up on the hint about his poor behavior and allowed one corner of his mouth to tug into a half-smile that resembled a grimace, but he nodded agreement.

They started off deadly slow, but West was hanging by his side. Moments like these, it really hit Wilson what kind of jerk he’d become, but he hated airports, and was convinced that airports had it in for him

*  
The end of the universe never looked so good. West was relieved when Wilson located an end seat to his liking and sank down with a muffled grunt, pulling out his phone and catching up on hospital communications.

West dropped his overnight bag into the next chair and draped his jacket over it. They left the conference before lunch, and he was scanning the available vendors for food. “So House walked away without finding out anything. You got your wish.”

Glancing up from his device, Wilson scowled, “You think I successfully dodged a bullet? Haven’t I told you about House?”

Folding his arms over his chest, West answered, “Actually, no you haven’t. House the, doctor, and the bizarre cases he solved yes, but talk about the man? You go from your charming uncommunicative self to mute whenever I ask you about him.”  
   
“House is on a “need to know” basis, and all you need to know is that right now, he is most likely preparing a heat-seeking missile that’s not gonna stop until it explodes up my ass.” Wilson’s hand swiped at his forehead and peered up, “As soon as we get back, I’ll need your help on damage control.”

When could West deny those liquid brown eyes? He blinked and returned to reality, replying as expected, “Why certainly Wilson, it would be my pleasure to help since you asked so nicely.”

The comment earned him a frown.

Not feeling that he was up to his quota in insulting looks, he pressed, “Why bother playing cat and mouse? Why not level with him?”

Wilson snapped, “Because this is House, and I prize my privacy. Two mutually exclusive concepts. What would you think if I told you I knew your blood type?”

West appeared startled, "Without me telling you? I’d think that’s…kinda creepy.”

“That’s House. He’s gotta know how everyone ticks - inside and out, and why.

“Right now, I’m not interested in your blood type or your advice. Are you helping or not?”

“Yeah, I’ll do what I can to keep House at bay. Can’t have matter and anti-matter colliding and destroying the universe can I? What do you want me to do?" offered West.

“Check the records at Mercy…verify that they’re sealed. I’ll take care of the rest”

“West. Doctor West at your service. Call me by my code name, double 'O' positive.”

“Must I say it again? I’m not interested in your blood type, and Nate?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you find something else to do with your mouth other then talk?”

West cracked, “After Larry Craig, airport bathrooms aren’t what they used to be.” The remark was rewarded with a derisive snort from Wilson. 

Continuing, West said, “Are you trying to tell me I’m hungry?”

“And thirsty.”

West could have done without the last hint. He decided to ignore it. “What do I want?”

“Hamburgers. Fries…and beer.”

“Kind of early for beer.”

Wilson threw him a pointed look before he went back to the emails displayed on his phone, “It’s the chaser for the drinks you’re gonna buy me on the plane.”

Shaking his head as he strolled over to the space age hofbrau, West considered how best to be a Wilson wrangler for the next several hours, keeping the drinking under control so they both walked out of the airport under their own power.

A well-groomed white-haired man who was probably somebody’s grandfather greeted him under the “Order here” sign. “Uhm…two cheeseburgers, one large order of French fries, a large coffee, and one medium beer.” West swung his head over his shoulder, gauging the depth of Wilson’s concentration. He was still hunched over his iPhone, and wasn’t coming up for air anytime soon.  He scanned the backlit menu, deciding now would be a good time as any for deceit, “On second thought, what do you have in non-alcoholic brews?" The senior citizen recited the list of two. "Yeah. Give me a large of the German sounding one instead. Thanks.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House speaks to Cuddy and learns more about Wilson.

.

 

House closed his eyes, moving his head in disbelief, _Crap! Of all times to be right! _The only seat left on the flight was next to children spawned by Molly Shannon and Robin Williams. A sniveling child to the right of him chaperoned by a weekend dad, and two bored, whiny kids with their frazzled mother across the aisle. At least the flight was short and he owned an aisle seat.

He waved away the attendant’s offer of a mixed drink, and made do with a cup of coffee and a mini dose of peanuts. The bag was so small, two shakes into his mouth, and the package was reduced to trash. With the rising cost of oil, he supposed the airline recycled the excess into fuel.

House alleviated his boredom by turning his thoughts to his current puzzle: Wilson. How could he find out what exactly happened to him?

Call Wilson’s parents? No, they might tell their son. Do a record search on employment, medical records, and physical therapy centers? He would have to strike fast. Wilson wasn’t an idiot. Under his good-natured façade the man prized secrecy like a miser hoarded gold. Everything might be tight and secure, but House counted on finding an unlocked back door into the information.   
   
Speak to Cuddy? Was she close to him? If she was, she never let on, but as the dean of medicine she may have heard something. He decided that as soon as the plane landed he would forego taking the afternoon off and drive directly to the hospital to speak to her.

With his plan of action settled, he pulled out his iPod to blot out the noise around him. As his fingers followed along with the percussion, a thought broke through the throbbing beat. Perhaps he should go see Wilson. Another face-to-face, but this time he would push all the buttons that were sure to make him detonate and splatter truth along with anger. He shoved the idea to the side, labeling it “In Case of Emergency”

He toyed with the idea of calling him, knowing Wilson would not say much, but his silences or lies could be almost as valuable. That option was left on the back burner to simmer. It would depend upon what he learned from Cuddy.

* * *

House showed up at the dean of medicine’s office in time to see gravity drop her reading glasses onto her paperwork.

“At your age, Cuddy, you must take your calcium regularly to have proper posture. Three years ago and your cleavage would have made great catcher mitts for those glasses.”

“Don’t think Citracal will be impressed with your endorsement,” Cuddy deadpanned. She looked pointedly at her watch, “Why weren’t you at the hospital all day?”

“What makes you think, I wasn’t?”

“You’re team for one. The clinic log book for another.”

“They didn’t have a case. I told Foreman to send them down to the clinic. Perfect synergy,” he answered.

“Perfect for you.” Cuddy pulled a window envelope out of her desk and waived it in front of him. “You recognize this don’t you? It’s you’re paycheck. If you want to be paid a doctor’s salary, then you have to behave like one.”

House swiped empty air. Cuddy was faster and slipped the envelope under her paperwork.

“Fooled everyone at the medical conference. Isn't that good enough?” He pulled the badge out of his pocket and tossed it on her desk. “See, says 'Doctor' and all kinds of letters after my name. Now hand over the check so I can pay off the geek who made it for me.”  
   
Cuddy read the information on the badge, “The Hopkins medical conference? You flew without a bribe?” She gaped with astonishment .

“With the speed and grace of an eagle. Yes, how else could I get there and back in one day? You never let me borrow your broom.”

Shuffling through different stacks on her desk, Cuddy found what she was looking for - an agenda for the convention. “Since when do you attend medical conferences without a gun shoved into your back?” She skimmed over the events until her eyes widened and stopped halfway down the page. She stared up at him, “I should have known…Wilson.”

House forced himself to maintain a poker face, as he upped the ante. “You're always insisting I network. Aren't you pleased I took your advice?”

Cuddy looked disgusted, “Networking, yes. Stalking, no. You two haven’t spoken for how long? Almost five years? I don’t want to be harsh, but has he ever contacted you in that time? Didn’t you get the message?”

“But, mom we were BFF’s. We shared popsicles and had sleepovers together.”

His voice imitated a whining eight-year old, but his face betrayed an adult’s dismay.

Throwing up her hands, “Enough with the metaphors.” Always a soft touch, Cuddy walked around her desk and placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, “How did it go?”

Shrugging his shoulders, “I insulted him. He deflected. Good times.”

“That bad?”

Pleased that she was falling for his pity act, he set in motion his plan to mine her for information. “Yeah. He couldn’t stand being near me.” House waited two beats before continuing, “I know I was a jerk, but that’s lovable me.”

He leveled his gaze at her, “Cuddy, there’s something more going on. Have you talked to him?”

Dropping her hand from his shoulder, she caressed his back briefly before speaking, not meeting his eyes. “No House, we never spoke, and he never emailed. I would have told you.”

“But you do know what he’s up to, what he’s been doing?” House pointed to the agenda, “He’s more respected now then when he worked here. He was the big draw at the conference.”

“Yes. Trinity’s oncology department is at the forefront. We're lucky Brown stays one step behind their lead.”

“Since when are you content to be number two? Why haven’t you tried to entice Wilson back?” Under lidded eyes he watched her reaction. She appeared uncomfortable, and walked back to her desk where she began shuffling paperwork.

“No House. Wilson isn’t interested. He made that clear when he didn’t return to Princeton after his sabbatical ended, and…it’s not always about having every front runner under one roof. I already have enough prima donnas with you, Simon and Lowell to deal with.”

Absorbing the information, House got into her face, hoping she would crack “You’re saying Wilson is tough to work with? We’re talking about the passive-aggressive but affable enabler with the puppy dog eyes who practically begged to be insulted by me at least once a day?”

She split like an overripe watermelon, “I suppose he learned how to be a bastard from you, House.”

The word “bastard” hung in the air. Cuddy caught herself, but it was too late. House backed off but was looking expectantly. She sighed, “I keep in touch with other deans and directors across the country. The director at Trinity calls on occasion. Rayburn claims Wilson is the sole reason he’s considering early retirement.”

This was unexpected news. House sat down. “Wilson’s a common name. You sure he was talking about the same James Wilson?”

Nodding, “The very same. Oncology was mismanaged by the previous head, so Rayburn hired him, giving carte blanche to turn the department around. Wilson shook it up. Repaired the damage, made it first class, but won’t let go of the reins or conform to policy. Jack is lucky if Wilson does what he asks once or twice a year.”

“I taught my padawan well,” commented House, looking pleased. 

“You taught him too well. Either that, or you found a way to mind meld.” Cuddy raised her hands, “I’m not saying you aren’t a handful. You are, and you still don’t know when to keep your mouth shut for your own good.

“Forgive me for saying this, but you mellowed. You go to clinic duty for weeks at a time without me breathing down your neck, and you meet most of your patients before they go into cardiac arrest.” She looked at him with sincerity, “It’s hard, I know, but ever since you stopped drinking and cut down on your meds you’re…” She quirked an eyebrow, “almost tolerable.”

Clasping his hands over his chest, “You wound me. I’m still the same, but too busy maintaining sobriety and reduced drug consumption to give two craps about fighting you on all your trivial hospital protocols.”

He leered, “I do appreciate moving onto your good little boy list. At Christmas will I sit in your lap, or will you sit in mine?”

Cuddy stared, “You’re still on the bad little boy list until you stop making comments like that.”

She added, “You’ve improved while Wilson is…a liability.” She cleared her throat, “His name has come up several times when I talked with other deans. He’s not looking to make a move; however, no one is asking headhunters to talk to him.”

“Spit it out, Cuddy.”

She took a deep breath, “Wilson is dedicated, earns the respect of his patients and staff, submits papers, starts up ground-breaking clinical trials at the speed of light, but he’s a train wreck waiting to happen. No hospital administrator wants him. Rayburn says he has one doctor on staff, Dr. West who comes the closest to keeping him in line, but Wilson is impossible. Shows up to work whenever he wants. Runs his department like it's his own personal fiefdom. Cuts corners on his clinic hours. Behind on paperwork. Doesn’t attend staff meetings. Seldom responds to email. For the most part, won’t take Rayburn’s suggestions or supervision, and...and” Cuddy closed her eyes, “House, are you sure you want to hear all this? You’re not going to like it.”

He already didn’t like it, that’s why he was asking all these damned questions. “Go on.”

“Rayburn says he knew Wilson drank when he hired him. He stopped for a while, but went downhill in the last two or three years. He doesn’t come to work drunk, but his reflexes are slow and his hands aren’t steady enough for surgery and procedures. He agreed to take a cut in pay. Rayburn feels at least he’s getting his money’s worth. Wilson is on the same collision course you were five years ago. No hospital wants to take him on.”

She gauged how the words affected him. He was sad, but not shocked.

House thought about what she said. Her revelations confirmed his suspicions. At the conference he noted Wilson’s faintly bloodshot eyes, and rosacea flushed cheeks.

His clear blue eyes peered back at her “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“What could you do?”

He shook his head at the dilemma, but he was tracking down one more answer, “Could his behavior be a symptom of something else? Do you know if Wilson was ill or injured?”

Raven eyebrows crinkled in surprise, “You can’t frame everyone’s actions into a differential. What are you getting at? He had an infarction like you? That’s why he behaves like you used to?” She put her hand up for a moment to reflect, “I haven’t heard anything, but it can’t be ruled out. The two of you think very much alike. Two sides of the same coin.”

“You’re saying I’m heads, and he’s the ass." He covered his mouth in mock embarrassment, "Ooops, I meant 'tails.'”

She rolled her eyes, “You’re not going to stop until you find out what’s going on, are you?”

House thought she deserved an honest answer, “No.”

“Fine, whatever you do, don’t start obsessing and allow your life to spiral out of control again…or make his life worse.”

Cuddy watched as House’s face became grave and his eyes distant as if channeling King Solomon. He spoke in a quiet but deliberate voice, “Are you saying you’re giving up on Wilson? You never gave up on me.”

There was something about the way he asked the question that made her carefully weigh her answer as if she was deciding to take a patient off life support, “No of course I believe in him. If he wanted to come back I’d make room.” Shrugging her shoulders, “What’s another bad boy around here.”

Somehow she leaned over the desk to emphasize her point, but without exposing any more of her breasts and wagged a finger, “You know I care about the two of you.”

Nodding as he got up, he gripped his cane as he readied to go, “Of course, Cuddy, I always knew you wore a 'D' cup because of the size of your heart and not your boobs.”

The envelope with his paycheck suddenly appeared in her hand. She gave it to him as she snapped out, “That’s very comforting House. Sorry I can’t say the same for you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> West remembers the first time he met Wilson.
> 
> The limp explained.

.

 

“I can get it. I can get it. Stop hanging over me,” Wilson slurred, sending more second hand whiskey fumes out into the hall.  
   
“Yeah, sure you can.” West stood idly by as Wilson fumbled with the lock.

The needle on his bottomless reserve of patience was pointing to empty after watching Wilson elaborately pat down his pockets, and then repeat the ritual. Inspect his key chain claiming in shocked outrage that someone stole his key, and when West pointed out the suspect in the line-up, Wilson began molesting the innocent keyhole with it for the last God knows how many minutes.

“Since you’re not making any headway with that key, it’s a pity you never purchased a doormat. You'd have something soft to sleep on since it looks like you’ll be camping out here tonight. Why haven’t you complied with the board and purchased a welcome mat for your door? You know you’re on the condo board’s shit list.”

Halting his onslaught on the lock, Wilson straightened up to look at West. He swayed like a skyscraper in the wind. “Doormats, Nate? It’s fucking late, and I can’t get into my home and you’re gonna lecture me about doormats?”

The two eyes joined forces for a moment as the doctor called upon his righteous indignation, “I'm making a statement by not having a mat. It’s my constitutional right. There's no welcome mat, because nobody’s welcome.

“Here, I give up.” Wilson jangled the keys in invitation, “Make yourself useful.”

West rolled his eyes as he took the keys out of the trembling hands. “There is no democracy in a condo. You better get one or else the committee will slap you with a fine and tell the owner to evict you." He was kicking himself about why he even bothered lecturing. Wilson wouldn’t remember in the morning.

While keeping a firm hand on Wilson’s arm, he satisfied the lock with one parry and twist, and thrust open the door. In a mock sotto voice he grumbled, “I can’t understand how you got so drunk. You couldn’t have had more than two drinks during the flight. How about we head to the bedroom so you can sleep it off?”

Waving three fingers haphazardly in the air, Wilson patiently explained the math to West, “Only three…from each of the flight attendants while you were sleeping.” He executed a wink, “Pays to know how to flirt with both males and females.” Wilson tried to focus his eyes on West while poking a finger into his own chest, “You could do with a few lessons from the master.” West didn’t know if he should laugh or cry in frustration as the boasting appeared to remind Wilson of his thirst, “How about a beer first before going to bed?”

“How about…not.” He dropped the overnight case at the front door before alternately pulling and steadying Wilson down the hall nodding to mumbling protests that he was fine and could take care of himself.

Without attempting any further conversation, West helped his friend out of his jacket. He was relieved to see him successfully grapple with the knot in the tie, but no such luck on the shirt buttons. The pearly disks were beyond Wilson's dexterity.

“Hey, forget about the shirt, can you handle the slacks on your own?”

Wilson sat down on the bed, “Sure, sure. With both my hands tied behind my back”

“Well good, cause this I gotta see.” West stood with his hands folded over his chest. Not so much to strike an attitude, but not to step in and offer help when it would be most likely rejected.

Wilson fidgeted in slow motion with the belt buckle, the top hook, the zipper - which threatened to stick on the fold.

West waited.

Not quite as drunk as his behavior suggested, Wilson paused as he was about to lean on his hip to ease down his pants. He looked up, “I deserve that beer now.”

“Fine. I’ll go get you one. Don’t stop what you are doing.” West understood it was Wilson’s way of preserving his dignity, so he took his time walking to the kitchen. He shook his head at his own thoughts. The man was so screwed up. Why did he even bother? Half the time he was treated as an errand boy, the rest of the time he was a whipping boy. He pulled on the fridge door, displaying its hidden contents. The arctic light shone onto the shoulders of beer bottles melodically clanking against each other. More comrades filled the shelves. Aside from some take out boxes, there was nothing but beer. He grabbed one, opened it, and headed back.

Upon his return, he was relieved to see Wilson somehow made it under the covers, face up, and shirt contorted around him, buttons threatening to explode. He was already asleep.

West spotted the trousers crumpled on the floor, crushed under the weight of the discarded prosthesis. He picked up the pants and dropped them casually on top of the covers where they couldn’t get wrinkled or do harm and trip the oncologist when he got up. He did the same with the “leg,” pushing it under the bed but leaving a little bit to be seen so the owner didn’t curse because he couldn’t find it. He checked that the crutches were propped up near the headboard in case of an emergency.

Putting down the bottle he watched as Wilson snored. Most of the time the man was an angry lion daring no one to breach his den, but even now with age and pain lines erased by sleep, he looked worn out and broken. Wilson made sure no one ever saw that he was remotely vulnerable.

West sighed and reached down, undoing the buttons within view, continuing until both the shirt and the wearer would comfortably survive the night.

Picking up the beer, he decided not to let it go to waste. As he savored the first swallow, he heard a muffled ring tone coming from the trousers on the bed. Not wanting to wake the sleeping man, West quickly located the cell and took it out to the living room.

House’s name appeared on the glowing screen.

The name topped Wilson’s favorite’s list. West felt a twinge of irritation. As far as he knew, the pair never spoke to each other, but the number remained on speed dial indicating a connection that was not entirely severed as Wilson claimed.

He stared at his own name, or rather just the initial, “W” appearing at the bottom of a string of take-out restaurants like a washed up burlesque comedian with bottom billing.

West wandered around the living room, tidying, checking for any “road hazards.” A stack of medical journals were straightened and moved toward the center of an end table. A couple of loose newspapers were fed into the greedy mouth of a waste basket. He still had to bring up the luggage, but that could wait until tomorrow. He lived in the same building, but on a different floor.

He checked the levels in the liquor bottles. He heaved a sigh, nothing much he could do there, but watch how fast the contents disappeared.  
   
West sat down making himself at home on the couch, staring at the small device in his hand. He pushed the display button and saw that House left a voice message. He didn’t dare listen, but he was curious. He knew more about House from Wilson’s silences, nightmares, drugged ramblings, and misplaced gasps of passion than from anything ever volunteered.

He was tempted, but knew better. He wasn’t the sort of person that schemed, or pushed fate. Wasn’t that what House did? But, once the thought took hold, it wouldn’t let go. It nibbled at his ear as it cajoled, then started vicious rumors…_You’re out, he’s in._

Did he even want to be “in?” He distinctly felt Wilson was on a campaign to distance himself from everyone, including him. More demanding than ever, and harder to please. What was the expression? High-maintenance. Definitely.

West chugged the amber liquid. Wilson wasn’t always like that. He remembered when they first met. It was at Children’s Hospital. Wilson was much different then. Somewhat cool and aloof. Not looking to make friends, but people were drawn to the easy offhand manner, the dry devilish sense of humor. Sensing the visiting head of oncology was not interested in more than networking, West kept within his own boundary.

They passed each other in the halls or nodded to each other in the lunchroom for a month before either one of them spoke.

Wilson made the first move.  
   
It happened at the quarterly finance meeting, mandatory for all medical personnel. West could care less, his attention on his notepad as he scribbled down the symptoms of his latest patient.

With seats filling up fast, Wilson was one of the last to arrive. They made eye contact, and after a polite inquiry, the dark-haired man gracefully sat down alongside him.

Wilson pointed at the notes, “Looks like lupus, but bet you twenty it’s not.”

“No it’s not. The last three doctors before the patient came to us insisted on that diagnosis, and now she’s exhibiting complications. But how did you know?”

“You’re doing a differential, which means you’re a diagnostician?”

West smiled, “I’m an attending in internal medicine, but I frequently pass for a diagnostician. If it’s a difficult case it gets referred to me. I’m Nathan West, by the way.”

Returning the query, “Tell me, I must have missed the last newsletter. Which department is hiring mentalists?”

“No. I’m not half that clever. My office at Princeton-Plainsboro was next to the diagnostic department, and was frequently called in for consults. I can spot a differential from a hospital wing away. Actually, try to keep two hospital wings between a whiteboard and me these days, but you can’t fight karma. I’m James Wilson, oncology.”

And, so it began. Lunches. Hanging out in each other’s offices. A friendship took root as they talked, ate, and drank.

The attraction was undeniable, but Wilson was honest. There was someone back at Princeton. He explained the sabbatical was to clear his head. He confessed to a slew of bad decisions about marrying three wives. Now he was deciding if a man he’d known for a long time was the love of his life. A doctor named Gregory House.

After three months, West was resigned to friendship. One evening he dropped by as Wilson was banging down the receiver in a huff.

“That hardheaded, idiotic, stubborn ass” rang off the walls as West just stood and listened. Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, then suddenly spun around, grasping onto his shirt, “But you’re not like that are you, West? You’re everything House isn't. You’d be perfect if your head wasn’t full of differentials. How about the way you kiss? I want to find out if yours are better than House’s."  
   
The next thing he knew he was engaged in a hot and heavy overture that was whirling out of control. Demanding hands, ripping the shirttails out of his pants. He was pulled into the bedroom, and pushed onto the bed, all the time knowing Wilson was acting more out of anger, frustration and need more than out of any attraction for him…

But, he could pretend. Because from the day they first talked, he fell for James Wilson.

For one month he reveled in a temporary pass to heaven, but was counting down the days until it would all end. Wilson planned on returning to Plainsboro when the sabbatical was over.

That was when everything blew up. A drop of water on the cafeteria floor, a slip, a fall, and Wilson was diagnosed with a torn ligament in his right knee. The specialist recommended surgery.

A standard procedure. Wilson wasn’t worried. He was more concerned about his mobility since he was returning so soon to New Jersey, and displayed a surprising hesitation to fill the prescription for pain meds in advance.

West offered to stay in town for the surgery, but it was scheduled during a family reunion. Patting West on the cheek as he got comfortable in the hospital bed the night before the operation, “Hey, no reason you should hang around. You’re only going to be gone a day. I’ll see you when you get back. Don't forget you're gonna pick me up.”

When West returned to the hospital he wasn’t greeted by Wilson. Instead it was by a team of doctors - the surgeon who performed on the knee, an orthopedic surgeon and an anesthesiologist. He was a doctor, and knew only too well the risks and possible adverse reactions to anesthetics, but he only stared, and his mouth hung open in disbelief.

“Does he know?”

The doctors shook their heads, and murmured, “Just out of surgery… left leg...ICU…heavy sedation.”

So West took up sentry at Wilson’s bedside, holding his hand and wondering how best to break the news.

When the time came, Wilson listened silently, his head turned toward the window. West saw a lone tear travel down a cheek.

His own were wet too.

Wilson clutched the pain medication button, but before he fell back under its spell he whispered, “I don’t want this to get back to House.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> West recalls when Wilson was in physical therapy.
> 
> House leaves a second message.

.

 

West sat in Wilson’s living room surrounded by silence, remembering the weeks and months following the nightmare at Mercy Hospital.

Normally predictable, the anesthetic lay siege to Wilson's body. Fortunately, the sharp-eyed nurse in post-op spotted the spike in temperature and the brown-tinged urine signifying muscle necrosis. If the discovery was any further delayed, it would have cost Wilson his life, not just his leg.

At the beginning, West never left Wilson’s side, paying for round after round of rides on a never-ending physical and emotional roller coaster. Making the sofa his base camp, he nursed him through the first weeks of recovery. Frequently, he woke up to hear Wilson cry out House's name during agitated dreams. By the time he made it to the bedroom, Wilson was downing a pill, claiming that he was in pain. Sometimes Wilson spoke the truth.

That period was the last time West brought up the subject of House. It was during one of Wilson's first physical therapy sessions when he began walking on his temporary prosthetic leg with the aid of parallel bars…

* * *

_Leftright… leftright…_

“Good! You’re doing great.” West was the official pep squad leader.

_leftright…_“Yeah”…_letftright…_”Won’t have to ask”…_lef—_“Ugh!…Damnit!” Wilson stumbled as the joint buckled…_right._ He stopped and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his arm…”Ask for a refund on my New York Marathon application”…_leftright_…

The physical therapist interrupted, “Lift and swing forward, Dr. Wilson, then the prosthetic “knee” won’t cave. Falls can be risky.”

Nodding curtly, “But I don't want to miss out on the complete amp experience, Cora.” …_leftright_…

 “Hear that West? You win our bet. I’m not supposed to trip and fall every few feet while wearing this hardware. Who’d of thought?”…_leftright_… “Better see about that marathon refund after all, so I can afford to pay you.”

…_leftright_…

“Hey? Did my cheerleading team go home?”… _leftright _…“Is it time for you to watch Hanna Montana?”

West was mulling over what he wanted to ask, “Don’t you think House should know?”

The physical therapist discreetly broke into the conversation, “Dr. Wilson, you need to even out your stride. Don’t favor your right leg.”

There was no answer. Only the sound of footsteps.

_…left…right…left…right…_West watched as Wilson negotiated a clumsy pivot at the end of the bars, beginning the journey again.

“Very good, Dr. Wilson, you're into the last stretch. Get to the end, and you can work on your upper body.”

“Last stretch, West”._..left…right…_”I'll give you a little tip. I'm not about to finish the race in 'win, place, or show.' Don’t throw away the money you just won from me.”_…leftright…_There was an attempt at a laugh but without any heart, ”I’m handicapped with the longest odds.”…_leftright_…

“You’re deflecting, Jimmy. If you won’t tell House, let me tell him for you.”

The off-kilter rhythm stopped.

Brown eyes darkened with anger. It surfaced quickly during those days, and hung on like a nicotine habit.

 “No.”

White knuckles clutched at the bars, “And, stop calling me Jimmy. Call me anything else, Wilson, James, even Jim or Obama. Not Jimmy.”

“Excuse me? My decoder ring hasn't arrived from eBay. Am I missing something?”

Another couple of awkward steps and shaking from the recent exertion, Wilson expelled a soft grunt, positioning himself in the waiting wheelchair. Grabbing a towel from a welcoming stack beside him, he began wiping down the sweat from his face, neck and arms.  
   
Before answering, Wilson looked around to see if the PT was near, but she was absorbed talking to another patient. He spoke under his breath in a hoarse whisper, “There is no more _‘my’_ in my name. Jim_my_ was someone who existed before that fucked up operation. I’m not that person anymore.”

* * *

West could testify to that. For the first couple of months Wilson lived in a room of his own creation. Each wall painted a different emotion:  anger, depression, self-loathing and bitterness. He didn’t come out until he was as hardened as the callused palms on his hands caused from his crutches. He ensured his privacy by safe-proofing the room with a brand of sarcasm that laid his wit to shame, and sealed all the cracks around the windows and door with air-tight silence.

The nuclear winter lasted long after West applied and was hired by Trinity. Not untl Wilson was ready to go back to work was there the slightest improvement.

When West saw the posting for the head of oncology he thought it was exactly tailor-made for Wilson. It was a pairing worthy of match.com. The director needed someone to reorganize the poorly managed budget and staff, and was agreeable to Wilson's terms. He was thrilled to get an experienced department head, and the damaged doctor was able to lose himself in his work.

While there was a a change for the better, West missed the man he first met. Now, Wilson was encrusted in permafrost that was impossible to chip away. The excessive drinking after work hours wasn’t helping either. It certainly wasn’t working as anti-freeze.

Then, there was the whole subject of pain killers. Wilson had a legitimate need, but not a daily one, and the supply kept running out far earlier than expected.

West sighed. He gave, he helped, he nagged, but the little good he did was like suturing a heart transplant with a band-aid. It was a temporary to non-existent fix.

Wilson consistently locked him out. Sex was long and far between. West stopped making overtures when Wilson laughed saying he found an agency with hookers that satisfied most of his needs with only a small additional surcharge for cripples.

He lived on hope, and was finding you couldn’t eat, sleep or love it.

Startled out of his reverie by Wilson’s phone, West looked down to see there was another call from House. _What the hell?!_ Wilson was right, the man was a pitbull with a T-bone steak. That short meeting this morning spawned Godzilla. Now there were two voice mails. Another gulp of beer, and he made a decision. Why not hear what House had to say? Wilson would probably never notice. If he did, he would make up some excuse or beg forgiveness. So what would one more scathing barb do? His hide was already covered in toughened scar tissue.

Listening to the first message, he was taken aback, _“Wilson! Have you turned into a moron?!  Something’s up your ass, and I know it’s not me. We need to talk. Call.”  
_  
West wondered if he should save Wilson the trouble and throw the phone across the room now. He’d never put up with that.

He tapped the second message. This one troubled him more. It started out just as abrasive, but morphed into _what?_ A lover’s plea? _“Why haven’t you called back, you idiot!?  I saw you at the airport today...Don’t you know you have nothing to hide from me? Call me, you...you putz__...please…If not...I won’t bother you again.”_

He had no idea how Wilson would handle the second message. What was House talking about? Did he see Wilson limping through the airport or downing one beer after another, albeit without the sting? Would this unleash Wilson’s bitter fury? How would he react to the tone of House’s voice? He spoke tenderly like a parent cajoling a scared child to come out from beneath the protection of a dining room table "clubhouse."

West turned his diagnostic skill toward Wilson’s heart and made his decision.

Moving his fingertips over the surface, all trace of the voice mails vanished. If House made good on his second message, Wilson would never know. He was convinced he did it for Wilson’s sake while stubbornly ignoring the voice in his head that said a physician should never treat a loved one.

He dropped the empty bottle off in the kitchen and returned to the bedroom. He wished he felt better about his decision. Maybe he’d look down the shotgun barrel of his own conscience and confess about the phone calls tomorrow. He needed time to think on it. Slipping the cell phone back in the slack’s pocket, he glanced at Wilson. Hair falling into his eyes he was sleeping comfortably on his side. West walked over, and before turning off the light, bent over the slumbering man, sweeping the hair aside and brushing a gentle kiss on the temple. “Goodnight, Jimmy.”

 

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	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next day at the hospital, Wilson discovers House is conducting an investigation into his recent past.

.

 

“You! Yes you. Are you a doctor or do you work in cosmetics at Macy's? Never walk into this department again wearing a trace of perfume or you’re suspended. Do you understand?!”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Wilson, I was on my lunch break, and the saleslady sprayed a sample—“

“Did I ask you to share? A pack of cub scouts could track your whereabouts by the stench. Chemo patients are already nauseated enough without having to deal with you coming into the hospital smelling like a cheap hooker. Wash up or go home.”

“Yes, Dr. Wil—“

“And, you!” Wilson was on to his next victim. “Why are you on your phone texting and checking stock quotes while conducting a breast exam? How many hands to you have?”

“Only two. I’m sorry, Doct—“

“That’s a rhetorical question. You were probably playing with your Game Boy in English class when the teacher explained the concept.

“Don’t forget you’re a first year resident. Lowest form of life in the hospital. As it is, patients feel like third-rate citizens when you step into their room.

"More importantly, _doctor_, and I use the term loosely. You need to prove to me and my staff that your neck is more valuable for attaching your head to your shoulders than a place to hang your stethoscope.

“Must I tell you to give patients your full attention?! You could miss a symptom that could affect the proper treatment and outcome of a prognosis.

“Unless you plan to retire on your three shares of Apple stock, you shut your phone off while you're in this hospital unless you can prove there is a medical reason. If I see your thumbs so much as twitch, you're out of here.” 

“Never again, Dr. Wilson. I prom—“

“I don’t want promises. Promises get broken. See that you do it.”

Wilson looked over the flock of bowed heads, “Why are you standing around? Surely there are still more patients for you to frighten and torture with your ineptitude. Go. Get back to work.” He watched them scatter before he walked away.

Hearing a squawk coming from his atrophied conscience, Wilson absently rubbed his neck and ignored the nagging feeling. He might have been too harsh on the residents and fellows this morning. After blistering the ears of eager but still inexperienced second year residents, and barely controlling his temper with several fellows designing expensive and near-useless clinical trials that would do more for their image than for the patients, he heaped all his displeasure onto the first years. There was a time when he behaved more like a mentor, but he discovered they shaped up quicker when he snarled and insulted them. They might as well toughen up now. Oncology wasn’t all kittens and daisies. It more often resembled the aftermath of a forest fire with scorched earth and unrecognizable carcasses left in its wake.

For the last few years, he found too much standing and walking wore out his patience with his patients, so he delegated more and more, turning his caseload over to his attendings.

But, if he was being ruthlessly frank, as he was doing with everyone else today, he'd have to also admit to transferring cases because of his drinking. He couldn’t trust his hands to stay steady.

While he missed the interaction, his objectivity improved, often arriving at the diagnosis before any of the staff. He couldn’t help but think of House. Was this the trick he used to pull eleventh hour miracles out of a hat?

Wilson limped back to his office. Usually, if he wasn’t tired or in pain he could match his right to his left perfectly, but his left leg was sending signals from the twilight zone for the last few days. Electric shocks sizzled through his phantom leg, and he shied away from putting any weight on it. He brought out a vial from his pocket, popped the cap, and dry swallowed a couple of pills.

When he opened the door, he wasn’t surprised to find West stretched out on the sofa engrossed in one of his medical journals.

Just another typical day with West camping out in his office.

Wilson’s eyes swept over the young doctor. No more than 35, the internist was tall, almost lanky, but deceptively muscular. He suited his unusual doctor’s garb – jeans and a buttoned up pastel striped shirt. A snowy white crew collar stuck out from the top. He could swear a Batman logo ghosted through the fine cotton of the shirt. The sandy hair was fashionably rumpled, the wide mouth open in a mischievous smile. It was the eyes that were his best feature. An arresting deep violet blue in the boyishly clean-shaven face.  
   
As Wilson walked by, he pulled the magazine out of West’s hands and threw it back on top of the stack piling up on the nearby bookshelf.

“Hey, I was reading that.”

“I’m sure you were. Do you learn more by reading it upside down?” Wilson sat down behind his desk and began fanning through his mail.

“If I read every fifth word it gives me the winning numbers for the upcoming lottery, the next triple crown winner, and the precise time when the four horsemen of the apocalypse arrive in Chicago.”

“Is House riding one of the horses?”

“I take that back. There are only three horsemen stuck in commute traffic on the Kennedy Expressway. House spends his time purposely galloping after you. Which of the four riders is he?”

“Pestilence, definitely pestilence.” Wilson answered without missing a beat. “Like the plague, he sucks the life out of me with his questions and neediness.”

Smirking, West chided, “You mean someone can get to you? I thought you were the man of steel. Bullets bounce off of you.”

Tearing open an envelope, Wilson unfurled a letter, squinting at its contents and added it to a waiting pile on his desk. He focused his attention outside of his window before making eye contact with West, “House uses hollow point bullets. With one shot, he triples the damage that most normal people couldn’t dream of making. If you want another metaphor, he’s a gun without a safety. Only a fool would want to get in harm’s way.”

West worked hard to keep the cynical smile on his face, but he interpreted his friend’s words entirely differently. The man who couldn’t be shaken by the hospital head, or by the board of directors when he insisted on special equipment and more staff, had a vulnerable spot. That imaginary gun and bullets had already torn up Wilson’s heart and was doing collateral damage to his own.

This morning, while he was looking into the mirror shaving, he resolved to bring up the phone messages from the other night, but he wasn't convinced that Wilson could deal well with the news right now or he could deal with Wilson. It had been a couple of rough days, and he was tired of smoothing over irritated outbursts, and what he absolutely couldn't handle would be Wilson's eyes lighting up when he heard the news. No, he wasn't ready to find out or cope.

He found something else to talk about, “I checked with Mercy. Everything is drum tight. I also called Children’s and told them I was with Good Sam doing a background check on you. Got nothing. HR is doing their job.”

Wilson nodded, “It warms my cockles to see your cunning nature put to good use.”

"You know your cockles are my utmost concern." West felt relieved. He sidestepped a prickly issue, and received a pat on the head. He never knew when he was overstepping or not. He sat up and stretched his long arms out on the top of the couch cushions.

Wilson kept his head down, trying to tackle the stack of paper in front of him, ignoring the man in his office. He noticed the looming tower was smaller than he left it this morning. West must have lent a hand while he was out.

Wilson hadn’t a clue why such a nice guy took an interest in him. For the third time today, he felt a pang of conscience. After all West had done for him, he really treated him shabbily, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. West couldn’t be in it for the sex. Frankly, he wasn’t up for it most of the time, and it didn’t come close to the effort he used to put into it with-- he blinked to clear his head. He had to stop comparing West to House. But, there was just a slim trace of House in the way West looked that never let him forget. His hand involuntarily pinched the bridge of his nose, brushing the shadowy thoughts away. He couldn’t afford another addiction.

There were two sharp raps on the door. Only one person knocked liked that, his admin, “Come in Bruce.”

An SUV of a woman gripping a steno pad and a pen in her hands walked in and shut the door behind her. Part of her everyday uniform was the headset sticking out from under a thick iron gray mass of hair that balding middle-aged men sighed over as she walked by. She was hard-coded to be a drill sergeant; a skill that was perfected while raising eight children. Her crap detector was highly tuned, and people were known to duck for fear that the top of their skulls would be sliced off by the laser rays emitting from her eyes when they raised above her reading glasses. Right now the all-knowing dark brown orbs darted from doctor to doctor, reading the terrain and not missing a thing.

Wilson scowled away a smile as he saw from the corner of his eye, West sit up straight and hide his fly from view as his knees came together like some prissy elementary school student.

Bruce didn’t miss the movement from the sofa either, and coolly said, “At ease, private.”

She was probably the only person that Wilson couldn’t intimidate. Going through life with the name of “Bruce” might do that to you.  She was brutally honest with everyone including him, but she was completely loyal and a formidable gatekeeper who was always suspicious of other people’s motives. She could sufficiently tenderize medical supply and pharmaceutical reps with her shrewd interrogation skills, so by the time Wilson barked his questions at them, they were only to happy to keep their presentations brief. Most left with their eyes raised toward heaven, giving silent thanks to be walking out alive.

She was his Zantac.

Wilson ensured that Bruce's pay was higher than her top grade level without ever needing to ask for a raise. Even with her salary pinching his budget, he was the envy of all the department heads who wanted her as their own personal Swiss guard.

Contrary to her appearance her voice was youthful and gentle. “You’re not leaving us are you Dr. Wilson?”

“No intentions of shaking off ‘this mortal coil’ if that’s what you’re asking.”

West’s eyes went back and forth between the two. Wilson always transformed in front of her - a lion unafraid of the whip, indulging the ringmaster by becoming a tamed tabby.

Since he wasn’t asked to perform, he sat back and enjoyed the show.

She answered him, “No, that’s not what I’m suggesting, and I’m sure you wouldn’t tell me because it would be none of my business. But, I do have a black dress hanging in the closet for just such occasions.

“I'm asking if you are taking a job at another hospital?”

Wilson raised his eyebrows imperceptibly as he glanced at West, “Why would you think that?”

“Several people called today who, by the way, sounded suspiciously alike, making inquiries about your background information.”

“And what did you give him…er, or them?”

“Must you ask? Why, not even the time of day.”

Nodding his approval, Wilson prodded, “Who called?”

Bruce found the reading glasses dangling from a cord around her neck, and slid them on to check her notes, “Two hospital HR departments, an insurance agency, and a bonding firm.”

“But you were suspicious it was the same person?”

"Each one had a different accent, British, Indian, Japanese, but the questions were very similar. HR wanted your employment and work/absentee records. The insurance and bonding reps asked about your personal medical history.”

West saw Wilson’s slightly flushed face turn white. The lips tightened into a forced smile as he whispered under his breath what could have been a curse, but he uttered, “House.” The voice remained fluid and soft as he probed, "Was that all?"

Clearing her throat, Bruce licked her lips and pressed them together in a duplicate of her boss before she spoke, “Two staff members received calls and messages. I checked with HR, and Rayburn’s admin. They received queries too, but refused to answer questions over the phone.”  
   
“I see.” Wilson’s face turned toward him. The face looked calm, but the eyes whipped with fury, “You know, Dr. West I’m not feeling well. Think I have chills and a fever. Definitely seeing spots before my eyes. Perhaps you should check me into the hospital for observation?”

“I’ve been observing you for an hour now, and agree you don’t look your receptive cuddly self.” (That earned a glower) “I’ll note the symptoms, but as long as they don’t become worse, you can still work and see me on an out-patient basis.” Turning to the older woman, West concluded, “Bruce, please let everyone know that Dr. Wilson is under my care and remind everyone about doctor/patient confidentiality.”

“Consider it done.” She turned back to her boss, “I can clear your schedule if you want to go home?”

“No, don’t bother. I have a couple of meetings that will go into the evening. Thanks, Bruce, for coming to me with that information. You earned your Christmas bonus early this year.”

“Just doing my job, Dr. Wilson.”

With nothing more to say, she left the office.

West tried to dispel the gloomy thunder cloud that hovered over the room. “I swear to God, Wilson, you're in love with that woman.”

A genuine smile briefly flitted over the cross doctor’s features, “It’s either make love to her, or pay her exorbitant amounts of money from the hospital’s coffers. She’s worth more than her weight in gold.”

Wilson gathered up the pile of junk mail and threw it into the waiting trashcan. Irritation rolled off him in waves.

“So, you think House made the calls?”

Wilson snapped, “Who else do you think it was? I told you he’s a nosy bastard.”

West was feeling uneasy about his actions during last night. As sure as global warming, House’s messages were going to blow up in his face. “If he doesn’t get what he wants over the phone, what’s gonna prevent him from hopping a jet and speaking to you face-to-face?”

“That’s completely different. House doesn’t go anywhere.”

“He flew out to see you at the conference.”

“Cuddy probably threatened him with extra clinic duty if he didn’t attend. Besides, that was a short trip, and on the East coast. He won’t travel beyond the Pocono’s. He’s seen far too many John Wayne cowboy movies, and thinks there are renegade Chickasaw crouching behind every fire hydrant. If House can be stonewalled for a month, he’ll lose interest in his little game. I know how he thinks.”

West couldn’t help himself, “And if House stops? Will you be disappointed?”

Wilson glared, “Haven't I done everything short of offering a contract on the man's life? What would make you think that?”

“Yes, but…it’s clear you…don’t hate him. You’re just avoiding him. How bad would it be to have a confrontation?”

Eyes filled with black ice, “It’s personal.

"Don’t you think it’s about time you get back to diagnostics before Eberly forgets you work for him?”

West felt he was teetering on the precipice of their relationship. Wilson was this close to writing him off as a bad debt and crossing him off the ledger. The thought caused physical pain. He wasn’t ready for that to happen. Not yet. He smothered the ache in his chest, and tried smoothing things over between them, “How about I come over tonight and fix dinner? Make my famous meatloaf, and I’ll bring another bottle of that cab you enjoyed last week.”

A speculative gleam melted the ice storm, “You’re on. What time are you coming?”

“Five?”

“Fine. I’m in meetings until six. Use your key to get in.”

“Don’t be late, or you’ll miss seeing my ass every time I bend over to look in the oven.” West winked, praying things would return to normal.

There was a trace of a smile that accompanied the growl, “You are so gay, Nate.” The corners of Wilson’s mouth threatened to crack wider, “I wouldn’t dream of missing your floor show for the world.”  
[](http://www.statcounter.com/free_web_stats.html)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> West has a consult with Bruce.
> 
> House comes to a cold conclusion.

.

 

Walking out of the office, West congratulated himself on not dashing against the rocks of Wilson’s wrath. Nevertheless, he was troubled. Sometimes he felt like Wilson and House were battle cruisers and he was a small leaky vessel floating in-between, about to be crushed while the two signaled each other in some undecipherable code.

He pulled himself together and stopped by Bruce’s desk to compliment her. It was prudent to stay on her good side.

Casually leaning against the raised counter-side of her desk he spoke conspiratorially, “Thanks for the tip. You missed your calling. Should have been a PI.”

“I gave it up after knitting my 100th afghan while on surveillance. Detective work is not what it’s cracked up to be, and carrying a concealed gun creates an ugly bulge under skirts.”

The image of Bruce as a femme fatale with a derringer secured by a garter choked laughter out of him, “S-Seriously?”

The reading glasses came off, and the brown eyes looked straight into his. His laughing stopped abruptly as he back-pedaled, “Fo-Forget get that I ever doubted you.”

Bruce placed the glasses back on her nose, and uncharacteristically patted his hand, "Can I speak frankly, Dr. West?”

“Don’t you always?”

Hesitating, Bruce studied her fingernails for a moment, “You’re a nice young man, Nate, but Dr. Wilson isn't the right guy for you.”

Knowing how much Wilson wanted his private life kept private, West became serious, “I’m the designated Wilson wrangler around here, don’t make it out to be anything more than that.” He hoped he sounded convincing enough for her. She was like a shark who could smell blood from a quarter of a mile away.

“Riiiight. Sure. It’s none of my business, but I see what I see, and you’re not made for each other. First of all, he’s too old for you. And, second, as much as I love my boss, I can see this relationship isn’t doing either of you any good. You're ‘The Other Guy’ honey. Haven’t you seen 'Desk Set?’ or more to the point, ‘An Affair to Remember’?”

“Uh, no. Are those black-and-white movies?”

One eyebrow arched, giving him the slightest look of disapproval, “No. Not everything as old as me was filmed in black and white, but you don’t know what you’re missing if you haven’t seen a Busby Berkeley musical.” She looked at him expectantly, but he only shook his head. "You need to talk to my youngest son. He can fill you in on the joys of Hollywood musicals during the 'Golden Years.'”

A couple of nurses walked by, and Bruce squeezed his hand, ”Now’s not the time for us to talk. Come by and take me out to lunch, and I can bore you with all the pictures of my children and grandchildren.” She started scrambling through her purse, “As a matter of fact, I have a new picture of my baby boy in here somewhere. He’s a lawyer with a prestigious entertainment agency in Los Angeles. You would find him fascinating. Sails in the summer. Skis in the winter. Attends all the film festivals.” A picture was produced from the dark recesses of her handbag. West was staring at a tanned Norse God with an expensive well-cut suit that barely hid a buff physique. To Bruce this towering hunk of love was her baby, but to every gay man across America, he was no less than a 'babe.'  
   
“He’s flying out for Thanksgiving. If you aren’t doing anything, why don’t you join us?”

West was speechless.

“Well, think it over. Thanksgiving is almost here.”  With that, she got on the phone to check her messages, and he realized he was dismissed.

He walked back to his office, hoping his face didn’t betray his surprise at having a pistol packing mama matchmaking for him.

_ Forget about Wilson? Replace him with some legal eagle athletic Adonis? What a ridiculous notion. What was she thinking?_

* * *

“God damn it!” House’s frustration came pouring out of his mouth. He was in his office, but his team was in the conference room arguing over treatments. He wouldn't interrupt them right now, let the kiddies play a little longer before he sent them scurrying in a new medical direction.

The patient was stable for the moment, but not improving.

He arrived early before his team so that he could do research on his computer and make calls without being disturbed.

Not, of course, to find new medical information on his patient. He was confident that the symptoms would eventually sort everything out.

No. He was sweeping the internet for facts about Wilson. Trying to get all the skinny, low-down, down-low, 411, that he could, but the Mid-west time zone slowed his research.

As the morning progressed, he determinedly worked through his list of contacts.

"Good Morning! How's the weather in Chicago?! I know you're busy, so I'll make this fast. My supervisor noticed the second page is missing from, um let me see, one moment please...from Dr. James Wilson's  medical history..." 

"...No? Not over the phone?  Can't make one tiny exception this once....? "- _Crap._

"Good day, madam. Excuse me, but our records indicate Dr. James E. Wilson's medical information is incomplete..." - _Bollocks!_

"This is Century Medical Corportation.  We are on a pressing deadline..." - _ Shit!_

"It is of the utmost urgency that..." - _Sonofabitch! _

"Alo? Is zis zee 'uman resources departamon?..." -_ Merde!_

_Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!_

Bureaucracy was alive and well, and apparently wasn't going to give up any secrets on Wilson. House's notepad was covered with doodles and very little else. All he was able to obtain was a sketchy timeline of Wilson’s whereabouts for the last five years. Children’s Hospital for the first six months. A black hole for nearly a year, and then he reappeared at Trinity as the head of oncology.

All he did was discover what he already knew. He was sure the missing year coincided with what he guessed had happened, but still there was no solid confirmation.

Before he began, he was positive it would be a snap to dig up the medical files. But, all the medical and rehab centers in the area around and between Wilson’s last employment yielded no information. He was coming up empty, and it left him equally wary, disappointed, and impressed.

House threw down his pen in disgust and massaged his aching leg. He was so intent on digging up information, he forgot to get up and stretch. He thought about taking a Vicodin, but decided against the idea, adhering to his low dose regimen.

Keenly aware how time changed them both, he believed they were owed a second chance, but wanted to be fully prepared before going into battle.

Too bad he tipped his hand to Wilson years before about how he’d hidden his own records, and that he wasn’t above checking on everybody else's he knew. He might as well have handed over a blueprint on how to secret files. Now, Wilson with probably the help of his toady, West, were taking full advantage of the information and ensuring that it was locked tighter than a Victorian virgin’s thighs.

Most likely everything was hidden under an alias, but none that he could think of. Medical databases gave up no secrets on Jimmy Stewart, Scottie Ferguson or other Hitchcock heroes.

He was more than disappointed. Not that he would admit it to anyone - he was hurt.

After all they had shared. After all these years, finally seeing each other, Wilson was sending him a message to stay away and out of his life. He didn't want anything to do with him.

He closed down the internet and ripped the paper off the pad crumpling it into a tight three dimensional puzzle and flung it into the nearest receptacle.

Damn it, he was angry.

No...No he wasn't.

He couldn't give a rat's ass.

_If Wilson wanted to rot in his own private hell, so be it. _

House got up and limped toward the conference room. By the time he finished intimidating and driving Kutner and the new team to the four corners of the hospital to run new tests on his patient, he packed away all traces of Wilson from his conscience.

 

[ ](http://www.statcounter.com/)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> West displays jealousy, and Wilson recalls a disastrous meeting with his brother (Yes, the LLB before The Social Contract and we knew about Danny)
> 
> Backstory for Wilson's LLB, _Jonathan_, is in [A Glassful of Shattered Hope](http://archiveofourown.org/works/66578), (slight allusions to DCE and LLB) which **** should be read before beginning this chapter.****

.

 

The elevator chimed as the doors whispered open onto the hallway, and an uneven gait echoed down the empty corridor. The sound stopped when Wilson reached his apartment.

It had been a long day, made longer by pompous asses who delighted in holding committee members captive while hearing themselves talk.

“Christ” Wilson hissed under his breath while searching for the vial in his jacket pocket and dry swallowing a pill before walking in on West. The phantom pain was still kicking up a fuss, but he didn’t want the evening ruined with West spouting on and on about alternate pain management techniques like massage and acupuncture when he could prevail upon the internist to write a Vicodin prescription. Besides, he involuntarily smiled, in a few minutes he was going to feel better when the medication entered his bloodstream on a tide of scotch.

The aroma of baking meatloaf kissed him as soon as he walked into the condo. He’d forgotten how the fragrance of home cooking transformed an atmosphere; but, standing while preparing foods and sauces from complex recipes didn’t relax him anymore. Bending down to take a roast out of the oven was a logistical nightmare.

Now he invested more time into what he drank with food than preparing it.

West’s back was toward him as he passed the kitchen, dumping phone, keys and spare change on a small table as he headed directly toward the liquor cabinet. Downing a good percentage where he stood, he thought refilling it now was one of his better ideas. It would save him another trip later.

After loosening his tie, he headed back to see what West was up to.

He was willing to acknowledge that the right ingredients were brewing tonight to put him in a pleasant mood. He decided a rare display of affection might be in order, and slipped an arm around West’s waist, kissing his cheek and nuzzling an ear.

He was taken aback when West sidestepped him, moving to the other side of the kitchen.

Annoyance was never buried too deep to bubble quickly to the surface, “What the hell is that about?”

Not looking up, West answered, “Can’t you see I’m busy? Why don’t you make yourself comfortable. Finish what you’re drinking and go start on your second, or is it your third?” West’s voice was cool, but maybe a shade more so than normal. A weatherman would claim an arctic front was moving in.

Stopping at the fridge, Wilson added a couple of ice cubes to his near-empty glass, watching West from the corner of his eye. This was very unlike him, and Wilson was concerned, “Did you lose a patient? You didn’t tell me about any—?”

Still turning his back away as he brought the meatloaf out of the oven, and covering it with a tent of foil, “That implies you’re interested in me and what I do. An internist can’t match an oncologist’s grim fight with death.” West’s shoulders hunched as he moved on to the side dish and mashed the potatoes into submission. “Seriously, why don’t you get out of your jacket and tie? I’ll have the food on the table by the time you return.”

_Table?_ Wilson looked back to the living room. The small round dining table was set with a tablecloth and candles. A bottle of cabernet was open and chaperoning two long-stemmed glasses. _Jesus._ He thought they’d be eating on the sofa watching “Kitchen Nightmares.” He shrugged and went off to the bedroom as he heard behind him drawers and cabinet doors open and slam shut with the resonance of a thunderstorm gathering on the horizon. Unless West’s mood improved by dessert, he resolved to get Nate out the door before nine. He wasn’t up to any arguments tonight.

Errant residents, egotistical chairpersons, and stonewalling a devious House was enough for one day. Right now, he would gladly switch roles with one of those tubers that West was intent on beating into a pulp.

* * *

The dinner progressed smoothly but quietly from one course to the next, with Wilson downing a glass or more of wine with every course. They were on the second bottle when West broke the silence. By that point, Wilson’s sole interest was appearing to behave more sober than he felt, and quietly writing the night off as a loss.

But the deck was stacked against him, and quiet was the last thing he was going to get. What he couldn't see or imagine was that the equivalent of a hurricane and a tornado were about to duke it out for the right to destroy the same trailer park.

While refilling another glass of the rich purplish black wine before starting on the dense creamy vanilla gelato in front of him, a small crumpled cocktail napkin was pushed under his nose. “Have I become a slobbering drunk? Don’t I already have a napkin?” Wilson looked down at his lap. A perfectly good piece of linen was occupying it. He dropped his spoon, and snatched the small square of paper, “What’s this?"

Returning to the chair opposite, West sat with his arms and legs crossed, attempting to look casual, but a muscle twitched in his cheek.

“I found it while going through your kitchen drawers looking for a decent knife. You’re lucky. I couldn’t find one.”

Funny, Wilson didn’t feel lucky.

What he did feel was West’s eyes boring into him.

He picked up the flimsy scrap again, inspecting it closely. It was a white cocktail napkin with 'Phil's' printed diagonally across it in dark green letters. Underneath, someone wrote a phone number. _Shit!_ It wasn't a 'someone.' It was House's handwriting, and House's number. 

Wilson rubbed his neck as he remembered where he got it. His brother gave it to him when he decided to drop in unexpectedly at his bar. Part of his colossally stupid plan to get his life back together and on track after losing his leg.

What was it his grandmother used to say? "Man plans while God laughs."

He must have given God a hernia that day from laughing so hard over his idiotic idea to visit Jonathan...

* * *

Wilson asked the cab driver to wait outside of Phil's for him. It was a crap shoot whether the evening would turn out to be a warm reunion, or a vitriolic clash. If it was the former, he'd pay off the cab and send him on his way. If the latter, well then he'd be out of the tavern in less time than his iPod could play "Surrender" by  Elvis Presley.

He walked over to the heavy door and opened it, taking a step inside, and peered into the darkness before letting it swing shut behind him.

It wasn’t “Cheers,” but then this wasn’t Boston.

It was Pittsburgh. A small respectable bar that bridged 'sub' with 'urban.' Someplace he wouldn’t mind going into for a drink…if he knew his brother didn’t own it, and if he wasn’t practicing abstinence.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly he looked around. Wood. Lots of it. Paneling, cabinetry, tables, chairs, planked floors. He savored the scent of liquor that drop-by-drop soaked into the porous surfaces over the years. It resembled the interior of an old sailing vessel and smelled like an ancient cask of amontillado. Quite comforting. Glasses and bottles soldiered in ranks and sparkled under two silent televisions displaying obscenely healthy men and women throwing and chasing balls for the sole interest of lulling Phil’s patrons into ordering more drinks. A few low mumbles could be heard, but the darting movements coming from both screens hypnotized most of the regulars into silence.

The only movement inside was a lone waitress checking for signs of life and refills from her customers. A bartender stood with his head down as he studiously cleaned a glass while chatting quietly with one of his regulars.

Wilson couldn’t make out the bartender’s face, but thought this was his likeliest target. He slowly and gingerly wound his way past tables, chairs and bar stools. Careful not to tread on peanut shells or glistening melted pools of ice and spirits, he arrived at several abandoned seats next to the bar. Choosing the center one, he created a mote of privacy around him. Eyeing the stool, he decided it was a hazard that would do nothing for his dignity as he climbed up or got off it, so he made an executive decision and shunned it. Shoving the seat out of the way, he leaned his elbows onto the surface of the bar and tried to ignore the raw fumes floating off the locals' drinking near him as he stared at the amber rainbow of back-lit shelves.

He wanted to laugh at his predicament. _He couldn’t be in a more appropriate hell._

He didn’t flash a credit card or cash. Didn’t raise a finger in request. He waited. Eventually the bartender would ask him what he wanted, and he would tell him.

“You’re new here. What can I get you?”

Wilson looked up and was startled to see his brother looking back at him wearing almost an identical face to his. In the years apart, their features seemed to blend together the way old married couples do. In this case, youthful carelessness on the part of one, and pain and alcohol abuse from the other hastened the family resemblance. Now the easiest way to tell them apart was by the hair. Jonathan's was gray all over, while Wilson’s was white around the temples.

“Jon.”

“Jimmy? Is that really you?” Jonathan was surprised. Also shocked to see the etched lines, the premature aging, and some unfathomable hurt pouring from his little brother’s eyes, but decided to respond by covering with the famous Wilson family charm instead. “Did you come in here by accident or did you stop by to place a pebble on my headstone and pay your respects after all these years?” It still hurt being painted a loser to your family by your brilliant, younger brother.

“About that.” Wilson saw a shot glass appear in front of him and the shadow of a bottle tipping toward the glass. His hand felt like lead, but forced it to cover the opening, shaking his head, “No thanks.” Guilt hung heavily around his shoulders preventing him from looking at anything other than the polished wood of the bar.

“That night when Julie invited you over, and I didn’t let you in. The things that I said. I had no right to hurt you like that. I’ve come to--”

A cold laugh cracked through the air, cutting off the sentence. Wilson looked up as Jonathan spoke. “I get it now.  Should have picked up on it the moment you said my name. The 9th step, Jimmy? Come to make amends in order to feel better about yourself? Sure you’re not rushing things? The way you stared at those bottles earlier, I’d say you’re only on the 5th. Fine. Whatever. Amends, then. The two of us can drink to it. Whadya say?”

Two more glasses appeared in front of him, and the fiery liquid rushed from the throat of the bottle into the first, and then into the second glass.

Wilson was stung by the words as he heard the musical rush of scotch swirling and settling into the squat tumblers. He couldn’t hear anything else. He had to get out of there, but first…

His voice became brittle. “Fine. You’re right. I’m a fucker, but you should know I spoke to Mom and Pop before I came to see you and told them to call you. I also explained to them that I was wrong. I should never have talked them into not seeing you.” Wilson began to push himself away from both the bar and the beckoning scent of peat and spirits.

“Wait.” He felt a restraining hand on his upper arm. Jonathan walked away, but  returned a few moments later, handing him a napkin.

There was a phone number on it. House’s number in his own hand. Wilson eyebrows knitted together as he tried to understand what it meant.

“Just thought you should know. House tracked me down after the two of you had some helluva rift years ago. He comes by now and again, but doesn't tell me much. He explained that you two finally got together, but then you broke it off. Disappeared off the radar." Jonathan shook his head in disgust. "And, I thought you were the smart one." There was a drop of silence before he continued, "Anyway, he said to give you his new number if I ever saw you.”

Jonathan leaned over and jeered, "Don’t misunderstand who I’m doing this for. Not for you, but for him.

“Oh yeah, and thanks for bringing me back from the dead after all those years, bro. Now, can you do me one additional favor? Leave, and don’t come back.” Jonathan turned around and walked away.

“Can't leave fast enough," Wilson replied dryly.

As he reached for a fresh bottle, Jonathan saw Jimmy’s reflection in the mirror and his cautious progress to the exit. Something wasn’t right. Had he stopped his brother from pouring his guts on his well-polished bar too quickly? Was there more to his confession? He decided not to wait till his folks called him, but ring them first thing in the morning. He’d missed them, and figured they would fill him in on everything.

The muggy evening did nothing to clear the tempting perfume out of Wilson's nostrils. He climbed into the cab and gave instructions to his hotel. He couldn’t process how badly the evening went. If self-loathing could be bottled, it would be delivered in a 5-gallon jug that he'd chug down to the last drop. Wilson pressed his palms to his eyes. What made him think he was ready to make amends to his brother and accept the consequences?

Back at the hotel, he tipped the cabby generously and walked into the lobby. The music from the bar arrested his attention when he was halfway to the elevators. The thirst for self-hate dried up and was replaced by a more accessible need as he heard the lonely melody coming from the piano hidden away in the dark and inviting cavern. Changing direction, he muttered under his breath, “What the hell. One drink and I’ll return to the program tomorrow.”

* * *

To get away from West’s mounting wind chill factor, Wilson moved toward the couch, still holding on to the souvenir from that long ago evening. He could hear John O’Hurley shouting, “And, the number one answer on the board about 'Lies that alcoholics tell themselves is…?! One drink and I’ll return to the program tomorrow!'”

He loused up badly. When he visited his brother he thought he bottomed out, but he only reached the basement of despair. There still were catacombs to explore.

An emotional bullet train shunted him from self-pity to self-loathing in a matter of seconds. He was lost. The landmarks he counted on were gone. The attempt to reconnect with Jonathan failed. No matter what his brother thought, House  forgot about him. What did he expect when he locked people out of his life? Who could put up with him, anyway? He didn’t deserve their love or friendship.

His sponsor tried to talk to him, but he was done with the program. He was tired of remembering and hurting all the time. He turned back to what worked so well - drugs, alcohol and West.

Which brought him back to why he was considering a suitable answer for the young doctor. Someone else’s bottled up anger wasn't much of a diversion. Drawer slamming and veiled accusations held little enchantment.

As Wilson eased down onto the couch, he couldn’t hide a wince of pain as he intentionally ignored West and popped another pill into his mouth, “You never are at a loss of words. Care to explain what’s got your 'Fruit of the Looms' all in a twist?”

West spotted the grimace and the pill, and was sidetracked, “Is your leg bothering you?”

“Fuck, West, you’re a doctor, not an idiot. My leg is fine. It’s the missing one that's bothering me.”

The internist had about all he could take, throwing all patience and concern to the wind as he said what was on his mind, “The meds are for what you’re missing alright, but it has nothing to do with your anatomy. You miss House and want to get back together."

“What are you smoking, Nate, because you’ve barely been drinking. Is it the good stuff? I’m expecting you to share,” Wilson quipped. The light tone didn't betray his barely reined in temper.

“That’s House’s phone number on the napkin, and since it's not your handwriting, I bet it's House's. When did he give it to you?”

The interrogation was getting under Wilson’s skin, but he started to explain as he flipped the small piece of paper back and forth in his hand. “The napkin is from my brother’s place, and it’s from years ago.” He stopped. _What the hell was he doing?_ He went on the offense, “I don’t owe you an explanation. How do _you_ know House’s number?”

"He’s number one on your speed-dial, and he’s been calling you. How often do the two of you stay in touch? I’ve seen two messages when you were too drunk to notice.”

Wilson puzzled the pieces together. Sounding deceptively quiet he began, “You went through the numbers on my phone. You listened to my private messages.” Wilson shook his head, “House never called me until the damned conference. What did he have to say?”

West felt a sudden chill. This was the question he’d been dreading all along. He wasn’t sure what he’d say until the lie spilled out of his mouth, “Hang ups,” he shrugged and turned away.

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. Nothing was making any sense. All the drinking was muddying his thinking. House wouldn't call without leave some terse, obnoxious message; but, what difference did it make? He’d been avoiding House up until now. Still, he needed to understand what was going on. “Why West? What difference does a napkin or the position of my speed dial numbers mean to you? So, what?”

As West approached, he snatched up Wilson’s cell phone from the side table and stood over him with it. “It means you haven’t gotten over House. Which means there’s no place for me,” West’s voice was a mixture of determination and sadness.

Carefully getting up from the sofa, Wilson looked West straight in the eye. “Don’t do this. Don't push it.”

West felt an ache in his chest. “You let me do so much for you, but when I get too close you shut me out." He stuck out his hand with the phone. “I’m not asking you to love me, or even say you care. Just let me know I’m the only one in your life.”

“Look, West…Nate…” Wilson implored.

"I never ask you for anything, but I’m asking you now. Let me see you throw the napkin away and erase House’s number.”

Wilson turned his head to think. When he made eye contact again, he crumpled the napkin and tucked it into West’s shirt pocket.

Taking the phone, he ran his fingers over the proper sequence until his thumb hovered over “delete.” Why should this be so difficult? After all these years he wasn’t going to phone House.

Anyway…he knew the number by heart.

He knew West was serious. If he didn’t erase the number he’d lose all he had left. His lover, lunch companion, lackey, and drug supplier.

The glowing screen shined out from the palm of his hand. He huffed out a breath as he made his decision, and his thumb pressed down on the power button as the display went suddenly black, preserving the number at the top of the list. He could only squeeze out two words of explanation.

“I’m sorry.”

Looking calmer than he felt, West smiled, “You and me both. And here I spent all this time protecting you. Finding you a job, helping you with rehab, managing your pain; and, all along I should have protected myself from you."

West didn't waste any time. He grabbed his jacket off the couch, and left, slamming the door hard enough to be heard through the immediate “soundproofed” neighboring walls.

Wilson didn’t know how long he stared at the closed door. He felt no pain. His heart was too covered with scar tissue. Nevertheless, the organ flip-flopped in his chest.

Walking back to the dining room table he picked up the cabernet and held it to the light to check the wine level. More than enough to make him sleep the night away. He cuddled it under his arm and moved toward his bedroom, murmuring, “How about a one-night stand with a bastard like me, sweetheart?”

 

[ ](http://www.statcounter.com/)


	9. In His Footsteps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House had vowed to forget about Wilson, but fate steps in offering a differing opinion.

.

West opened the door to his condo. It was ten floors above Wilson’s and faced the better view. High enough not to require covering the windows, the breathtaking IMAX display of Chicago blinked and glowed before him, but the spectacle could not distract him from his sorrow.

Black leather furniture played a supporting role to the galaxy outside. Better than his widescreen television, he would spend an evening looking out the window imagining he was traveling through space to where no man had gone before.

Well, tonight he went where he never dreamed he’d ever go, and now he was stranded in the right field of the universe without any possibility of a tow.

He flung himself onto the sofa and stared at the ceiling, hoping to hear an apologetic knock at the door, but time passed and all he heard was the ticking of a clock, and plus sized hailstones clattering into his freezer's ice dispenser.

He pulled the napkin out of his pocket and smoothed out the wrinkles. Who was he kidding? He heard regret in Wilson’s voice when he apologized, but the brown eyes said they were over.

“Phil’s,” paraded across the pebbled surface, and in smaller print directly below, the address and phone number. The paper nagged at his analytical mind. He never knew Wilson had a brother. He never mentioned family. What did Phil know about House? Did House ask Phil to broker a get together? The napkin was in reasonably pristine condition before he showed it to him. Had it really been years since Wilson laid eyes on it, or had he lied?

The questions replayed on a never-ending loop. He could forget about getting any sleep. He wanted answers. Glancing at the clock on the wall, the time was 10:30.

Not too late to call a bar.

Flipping his phone open, he jabbed at the numbers and waited for someone to pick up. West scrubbed at his cheek. He was having second thoughts when he heard the muffled background noise of people and a clear alto voice answering, “Phil’s."

He was distracted by the voice on the phone. It sounded exactly like…”Wilson?”

“That’s a no if I owe you money.”

_Damn,_ West wanted to end the call right then and there. It was disconcerting to hear Wilson’s voice when he knew it couldn’t possibly be him, and yet it was comforting. “This is Phil, isn’t it?”

A chuckle at the end of the line responded to his query. “'Phil’s' is the name on the sign. How did you know my last name is Wilson?”

“I’m Dr. Nathan West. You’re James Wilson’s brother?”

He could hear a sharp intake of breath, “Shit. Is everything alright?”

“Y-yes. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. James is fine. I'm a friend.” West mind was whirling. Yeah, some friend. He was making a mess of this. Why did he ever bother making the call in the first place? It was over between him and Wilson. It was clear he wasn’t wanted, but curiosity ran through his veins, and now he seemed to be channeling Wilson’s deceptive side. “Uh, James asked me to call for Dr. House’s phone number. Seems he misplaced it after you gave it to him.”

“After all these years he decided to look up House, but little brother was too much of a coward to call me himself? Hasn’t changed much, has he? Yeah. I’ll get it. Hold on.”

From the little that was said, it was clear to West that Phil knew nothing about House and Wilson speaking to each other or ever getting together. West wiped the nervous sweat off his forehead while he waited. The call was a dead end. He heard the rattle of the phone as the voice returned to the line and called off the numbers, concluding, “Is there anything else?”

“No. No thanks.” He was about to hang up when he heard the familiar voice coming through the phone and quickly held it back up to his ear.

“Tell that brother of mine that unlike him, I have a first name, and aside from calling his parents once a year and leaving a message, he should visit them. They’re not getting any younger.”

The line went dead.

_Fuck_. West stretched back out on the couch, waiting for his heart rate to slow down. Wilson hadn't lied. All he proved was that he was a jealous fool. Bottom billing on a phone list wasn’t looking so bad after all. Except he’d now pushed the threadbare relationship until it broke.

He ripped the worn out napkin to shreds and threw the pieces on the floor. It was over. What he had with Wilson was over.

He turned his head to look at the beautiful view out his window but droplets of water obscured it.

It wasn’t from rain.

* * *

After placing the phone back into its cradle Jonathan couldn’t get the call out of his head. Something smelled. He went back to his customers, but couldn’t let the brief conversation go.

While calling a cab for one of his regulars fifteen minutes to closing time, the thought struck him that his bright younger brother had a photographic memory. Especially when it came to phone numbers. At family gatherings after everyone ate and conversation was winding down, Jimmy would be called into the living room to entertain everyone. Aunts, uncles and cousins would shout out for him to recite their phone numbers along with local theaters and shops. It was like some cool parlor trick. Even he and David was never bored with the performance.  
   
Unreasonable panic was beginning to gnaw at him. His long buried protective big brother instincts began stirring. What if this Dr. East or West was lying? Jimmy didn’t look well the last time he saw him. Come to think of it, he never visited their parents. What if there was really something the matter with him?

He squirreled around in the drawer for his address book again, and thumbed down the alphabet until he reached “H.”

* * *

The last late night television host signed off for the evening, and House was limping to his bedroom ready to hit the sack when he heard the phone ring. It couldn’t be his latest patient taking a turn for the worse. He was sure his team nailed the disease earlier today.

Preferring the IQ of his telephones to be lower than his own, House regretted that he never signed up for caller ID. He debated if he wanted to play Russian roulette, and decided to take a chance. If he didn’t like who was on the line he would have the perfect opportunity to be sarcastic and hang up on them. Picking up the handset, he belted, “Whose dying? Make it fast.”

When Wilson’s voice greeted him, he thought he would flatline, but then recovered as the caller identified himself.

“House, it’s me, Jonathan. Sorry to ring you so late, but I’m worried about Jimmy. I got a call this evening—“

His heart bounced in his chest. It was something to do with Wilson. “He called you?”

“No, but I got this strange call from uh… uhm, a Dr. West? Have you ever heard of him?”

“Yeah, you didn’t know you have another brother? They’re inseparable. You need a hose to see daylight between them.”

“House! He may be a jerk, but he’s my brother!”

“Agreed. Can I go to bed now?”

“This West asked me for your phone number, and I can't figure out why. Do you know the reason he'd be asking for it?”

House brushed his hand through his hair. What would lead West to phone Jonathan’s bar? It suddenly hit him like an electronic billboard in the middle of Times Square, “Jealousy. He saw the napkin with my phone number on it, and wanted to know if we're speaking to each other.”

Curiosity about Wilson that he thought he completely trashed and burned began rising from the ashes, “When did you give Wilson my number?”

There was silence as Jonathan pieced everything together. He answered under his breath, “Jesus, so that’s what he was doing. No wonder he only had half his information straight and sounded nervous.”

“Think, Jonathan, what happened between you and Wilson? How long ago was it?”

“Let me see…Jimmy came in one night, and we instantly rubbed each other the wrong way. Did you know he had a drinking problem? He wanted to erase all the lies he told about me by making amends. As if saying he was a recovering alcoholic and changing mom and pop’s opinion about me could make up for all the lost years. We sniped at each other, and he said he couldn’t get out of my place fast enough." There was a pause. “You know, there was something odd about that.”

House remained quiet as Jonathan collected his thoughts.

“For someone with long legs and the hots to leave, he minced out of my place like a little old lady,” Jonathan mused. “Guess he didn’t want to make an embarrassing exit and slip on the floor getting his fancy suit all covered in peanut shells and booze. Actually, a lot of customers complained about the mess. I stopped serving them…oh, about three years ago.”

House was nodding into the phone. “How did he look?”

“Not well. You know, when someone’s been seriously ill? He’s seven years younger, but we looked the same age. House, what are you saying? All the Wilsons’ can be lying schmucks sometimes, but he’s still my kid brother…”

House wasn’t ready to remove Jonathan’s feet from the fire, “Why didn’t you ever tell me Wilson came in?”

“What was the point? He’d either call you or not. If I told you and he never spoke to you, would you have felt better?”

Knowing what he knew now…”No, but I would have known what to do about it.”

“What’s that?”

“Not sit back and wait all these years to go see him.”

“You’re going to Chicago?”

“I’ll be on a flight tomorrow.”

The voice on the other end of the line was getting lower and huskier. Emotions were going to crack through any minute, “House, would you do me a favor?”

“What? Express mail a deep dish pizza from O’Hare to your saloon?” There was an edge to his voice. House hated favors.

Jon’s voice was almost a duplicate’s of Wilson’s except in the way it cracked. It wasn’t over a word or two. It spread across the whole sentence like blackberry jam over toast, “Tell that jackass brother of mine…” House could make out a strangling sound, and wondered if he needed to hang up and dial 9-1-1 when he heard the voice continue, “that I miss him.”

House rolled his eyes, and bit back his impatience. For old time’s sake, he let Jonathan ramble a few more sentiments before he reminded him how late it was and hung up.

Massaging his thigh before easing off the bed and heading to the computer in the other room, he thought about the significance of the napkin that was spurring him on to a damned flight to Chicago.

Wilson never threw it away.

All along House thought Wilson wanted nothing to do with him, but that wasn’t so.

It was Wilson’s way of hiding from him.

 

[ ](http://www.statcounter.com/)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House arrives at Trinity Hospital in time to have a confrontation with...West.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> House quizzes West on disease symptoms. If you want to test your own knowledge of House episode titles, the answers are given at the end of the chapter.

.

 

Engrossed in the spreadsheet she was building, Bruce wasn’t aware of the tall man standing over her desk until he banged it with the head of his cane. Pink message slips fluttered to the ground like exotic birds seeking cover from ferocious prey.

Her name plate waved in front of her. “Where’s this guy? I want to speak to him,” the voice demanded.  
   
She pinched her lips together in disapproval and lowered her glasses on her nose to get a better look at the impatient man. She was impressed. He didn’t flinch as her laser eyes scanned his bristled face.

Snatching the plate back, she took her own sweet time positioning it precisely back on her desk. She then raised her finger for him to be patient as she bent down and picked up the blushing escapees from the floor.

Again upright, she saw the man was beating a rhythmic tattoo with his fingers on the upper counter of her desk and staring at the ceiling in tightly controlled irritation.

“I’m Bruce Sorenson. How may I help you?”

Blue eyes scoped out the short, squat granny with a clip full of ammunition packed into her brown orbs, “Seriously dude, you should have saved your money and not had that sex change operation.”

Bruce only sighed. “This is what time and eight babies will do to you. You wouldn’t have questioned my name when I was twenty.” Something clicked as her personal voice recognition system kicked in, and decided to risk releasing a barb, “Did my name raise your hopes that there was more under the dress than a shapely figure?”

“Ouch! And, I’m not saying that because you’re hot.” A smile threatened to crack open on House’s face. He appreciated irreverence. “Wilson’s taste in hospital staff has changed. You’re no simpering Debbie from accounting.”

“And, you’re not an insurance rep from India.” She took a stab in the dark about the title adding, “_Dr._ House.”

The smile that was in jeopardy of exposure finally made an appearance. The woman was getting to him. Besides, he needed to win her over. In the last few years without Wilson, he was forced to develop a fly's crap of charm to secure what he wanted, and put it to good use now. He leaned conspiratorially across the tall fortress with one hand over his heart, “You got me. I’m an old friend of Dr. Wilson’s and wanted to surprise him, but looks like he surprised me. His office is locked. Where can I find him?”

A man’s voice behind him responded, “You'll have to come back tomorrow. He went home for the day.”

House turned around, narrowing his eyes. Standing in front of him was a youthful version of himself, if you could make color adjustments like you can for a television. It was the man from the airport, but in casual clothes instead of a suit. He looked like he spent the day writing toe tags for plague patients. In other words, he looked like shit. The eyes were red and cushioned by dark half-moons under the eyes. “Nathan West, I presume?”

“That's_ Doctor_ _Nathaniel_ West.”

House twisted the scalpel, “Internist and friend…or is that enabler and boy toy to Dr. Jimmy?”

“You got the first one right.”

Both doctors appeared cool, but they were sizing each other up. It was 'ER at the OK Corral.'

“Are you any good?”

“Most of my patients walk out of the hospital with a healthy prognosis and a minimum of torture.”

House approved of the response. Appeared West owned a sharpening steel of his own.

"Think you’re a hotshot, don’t you?" Standing several feet away from West, he leaned his back and elbows on the counter and fired. “Let’s see how good you are." He started with what he considered an easy case.

"A patient is admitted with hallucinations. She looks younger than her age.”

“Diffuse lepromatous leprosy,” West shot back.

"A patient has a stroke. Can’t do an MRI because there's a plate in his jaw. Mini strokes continue though he's given blood thinners. There's evidence of mood swings. It’s not an aneurysm. The patient has gorilla breath."

"Fulminating osteomylitis. The infected tissue caused blocked blood flow." West didn't so much as blink.

Straightening up from the desk, House moved toward West, “A brother is about to donate bone marrow to his sibling, but sneezes. Has a fever, enlarged spleen, a sore shoulder and swollen testicles. Test results come back high for CKMB and the mitral valve is thickened and fibrous. Patient begins to bleed out from the ears."

“Histoplasmosis” Another step from West.

The ghost of Moby Dick swam across House's vision as he machine gunned a series of symptoms, “Bloody diarrhea, ataxia. Kidney shut down. A small mass which could lead to pituitary failure. Respiratory failure." House checked out West. He could see the gears turning. "Haven't got it yet? Do you want a lifeline before your final answer?"

West nodded, "Yeah. What else?"

"A mass on the right atrial valve. Eventual cardiac arrest, but the patient was shocked back to life in time to make an accurate diagnosis and save him.” It was House's turn to be the aggressor. He walked forward.

They were within a foot of each other.

House could feel West's breath on his face as he answered, “It’s rare, but it must be Erdheim-Chester."

Both scrabbled to gain the last few inches of territory between them. Now they were nose to nose.

No doubt about it, this Clanton-Kovac knew his stuff, but House decided to test a theory.

“A woman’s liver cancer goes into temporary remission due to another patient touching her face.”

West's voice faltered, “I-I-I don’t know.” He backed away, conceding defeat.

If House had six-shooters, he would be twirling them back into the holsters.

He was still the toughest bad ass hombre in this or any hospital. Numero Uno.

A quick nod for emphasis, “Which only proves from your answers that you’re a good listener when Wilson talks to you about my cases. You didn't know the last one because he doesn’t speak about his need for neediness. Ask him about Grace sometime.” Silently, House hoped West would never get a 'next time' if he had anything to say about it.

West snorted, “Wilson needs neediness? Are you sure we’re talking about the same James Wilson?”

Claxons went off in House’s head. Had Wilson changed so much? Could this trip be a waste of his time? He quashed the thought. At the very least, he wouldn’t go home until he spoke face-to-face with him and got answers, “Give me his home address and let me find out for myself.”

“It’s against hospital policy to give out the addresses of personnel. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” explained Bruce as if she was reciting the official admin’s handbook.

West spoke up. “Of course, it is, Bruce, but Dr. House is a visitor to our city. We should entertain him while he's here. Perhaps, a small sightseeing tour by way of a puzzle would interest you? I understand you like them. How about a treasure hunt?” West pulled out one of his cards and scribbled an address on the back.

“All you have to do is go here, and tell the man at the desk that you're visiting me. I’ll let him know you’re coming. He’ll direct you to my place.” West gave House a glacial stare before continuing. “Don’t knock, because even if I was home, I wouldn’t answer. While there, you might like to see how the natives live. Check the tenth floor below mine. A very nice, friendly group. Everyone has floor mats with 'welcome' printed on them except one guy who can’t be bothered. Really annoys the hell out of the neighbors.” West couldn’t prevent a strangled laugh from escaping, “You’d think the person living there owns a big dog because of the scratches around the keyhole, but…” West leaned toward House’s ear to whisper in all confidentiality, “The owner is too blind drunk to fit the key into the lock. You really must see it for yourself.”

He checked the time on his watch, “You may get lucky and beat the SOB to the door. He usually stops for take-out and a bottle of liquor before going home. He might be the prize package you're looking for.”

House took the card and handed West one of his before saying, “You think he's a son-of-a-bitch because you pushed him about my phone number, and didn't get the response you were expecting.

"I'll consider you did me a favor and that I owe you one. Call me if you ever have the urge to torture a patient of your very own one day.” 

Having the last word, House turned his back and walked to the elevator.

Neither West nor Bruce spoke as they watched the limping figure recede down the hall.

Too pumped up with adrenaline from the confrontation to say anything, West couldn’t believe the emotions that flooded through him. In front of Bruce and to House's face he described Wilson as an SOB. He was hurting about the breakup, but never fathomed how angry he was.

A soft voice intruded on his thoughts. “It’ll be alright, honey.”

There was no way anything would ever be alright, but he wasn’t about to lose control again. It was bad enough to behave like a jealous lover last night, but not in the hospital. He willed himself back together, and took a deep breath. 

Turning to Bruce, West exhaled, “Next to House, Wilson acts like Katie Holmes.”

“Nuh-uh,” Bruce shook her head, “I told you, you need to watch 'An Affair to Remember' then you’ll understand. Wilson is much more than Katie. He's Deborah Kerr." She turned her head back to the corridor House disappeared into , "And, there goes Cary Grant.”

Lifting an eyebrow, West was at a loss.

Squeezing West’s hand, Bruce consoled, “You look awful, dear. Everything came to a head last night, didn't it? Don’t worry Butch, the Sundance Kid is looking forward to meeting you at Thanksgiving.”

 

.

* * *

**A/N: Answers to episode diseases:**  
1)    Dying Changes Everything  
2)    Love Hurts  
3)    Family  
4)    All In  
5)    House vs. God

 

[ ](http://www.statcounter.com/)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, House and Wilson speak to each other.

.

It was evening when Wilson opened the door. The light that flooded out from his apartment made him go rigid. His hand clutched the doorknob.

Scanning the room, he saw a lamp was on. The overhead fixture in the kitchen was spilling light into the living room from the opposite end. He left early for the hospital this morning while it was still dark. Had he forgotten to turn off the lights? He panned the room once more, eyes halting at the coffee table. He’d left his mail stacked neatly on the side. Now it was all spread out.

A sudden shockwave rolled through him.

There was a knapsack and a cane leaning against the armrest of the sofa.

He wrestled to maintain a grip on reality as stone cold panic washed over him. How long had House been here? Unbidden rage removed his fear. He needed to think fast. How much could House discover by going through his home?

Everything. Almost everything.

All his carefully kept secrets, except a couple buried in his heart were all out on display like Macy’s Christmas window. A few were tucked away in shallow graves, but House would have no trouble ferreting anything out.

He almost groaned at the image of his meth lab of a medicine cabinet. The kitchen recycle bin was full of racially indiscriminate green, clear and amber bottles. It nearly reached out and tripped any trespasser who wandered into the kitchen.  
   
God. The bedroom. Wilson dry swallowed a boulder in his throat. The crutches. The folded wheelchair squeezed between the chest of drawers and the corner of the room.

Down the hall he heard the toilet flush and water rushing from the tap. He had to think fast and manufacture a lie. If House asked, he could claim back trouble. Chronic back pain. It could work if House didn’t have time to go through his nightstand that hid more painkillers tucked in between his stump socks and liners.

The bathroom door whimpered a squeal as it opened; he heard the familiar erratic gait. Part of him wanted to escape the apartment. Part of him wanted to see and touch House again.

Remembering their meeting from a few days ago, he resolved to get through this. House wasn’t able to drill through his hardened shell at the conference, and he wouldn’t let it happen here. As the footsteps neared, he took the offense and slammed the door, “House!”

The man, himself, came into sight. “Brilliant analysis, Wilson. This is a house. Do you always have a compulsion to label your surroundings? Is this something new?”

It was a gambit meant to throw him off guard. Normally, a remark like that would make him sputter, but he kept his emotions tightly controlled. His defense system kicked in, coating him in layers of ice.

“House, you have no right to break into my apartment. I should call the police.”

“But you won’t. All those YouTube videos finally paid off, Jimmy.” House leaned on the back edge of the couch trying to be casual, but deep down he knew he was playing with a ticking time bomb. He had to tread carefully. “I waited outside for as long as I could, but had to take a leak and was thinking of your reputation with the neighbors. What would they think if they heard me call out ‘Jimmy’ while using your door as a urinal?”

The dark haired oncologist stared icily before answering, “They wouldn’t give it a thought. Only call the manager and see that you were arrested. No one knows me as ‘Jimmy’ around here.” Wilson moved to the kitchen stowing the bag of take out and a brown paper wrapped bottle on the counter. Before there was time to turn around he heard House behind him.

“Smells like Chinese. Aren’t you gonna ask me to stay for dinner?”

House’s off-hand tone was getting to him. All he wanted was to get him out of his apartment and out of his life as quickly as possible, and break open the new bottle of bourbon to help him forget the evening. Any minute House was going to question him, and he didn’t want to hear his weaknesses thrown back in his face. He stood with his hands gripping the edge of the sink. “For God’s sake, House. What made you think you’d be welcome? Please leave.”

“Jimmy.”

Wilson wiped his brow. Beads of sweat were forming. He needed a drink. Grabbing and stripping the paper from the bottle as if holding it would give him strength, he turned to face his stalker standing only a few feet away. “Get out of my way,” he grit through his teeth. House backed up to the doorway allowing him to get as far as the middle of the kitchen, but then he was blocked again. Waving his free arm, “Fine. Say whatever you have on your mind, then go.”

“It’s time we had a talk. We were never meant to be apart, Jimmy.”

Wilson wished House would stop calling him that. His voice. His scent. It was one thing to stand up to him at the conference, but here, it was too much. He felt like a frayed pair of jeans that was ripping apart. All he could do was wear his poker face and bluff, “That’s nonsense. We couldn’t agree on anything. It was time for me to cut my losses.” He barely prevented the bitterness from seeping into his voice, “Before this, you never bothered to visit. Now you have nothing better to do than come snooping?”

“To see what the hell’s going on with you,” House said roughly, but the blue eyes looked sad. “You really had me second guessing for months after you left. Years. Thought my drug addiction and drinking pushed you away, but it wasn’t that. I finally figured out you were hiding and developing a set of your own nasty habits”.

“You have no right to go through my things,” Wilson growled, not betraying the sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Please. Looking inside your refrigerator is hardly snooping. And, surprise! Nothing but bottles. Not that I needed to check. Cuddy filled me in before I flew out. You have quite a reputation. No more wonder boy oncologist. Now you’re called the brilliant ‘oncoholic’ by hospital heads.”

“It’s none of your business, House.”

 “No, and you don’t care, as long as no one can figure out the rest of the story. Drugs, Jimmy? I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t search your medicine cabinet while visiting you. You used to be so good at practical jokes. Don’t you know those cabinets should never be filled with anything but marbles? You actually stashed sleeping aids, anti-depressants and pain medications in there.” House paused and smiled, but not with his eyes. “Looks like you’ve settled on Vicodin as your pain reliever of choice. How’s that working for you? Do you think of me every time you pop off the cap?

“Do you use it for residual or phantom pain? Or both?”

House examined Wilson’s face. Not to see the shock that revealed in the eyes about his conclusion, but to check the once fair skin for signs of a failing liver. Then, he grabbed the hand without the bottle. Inspected the palm. He felt relieved. Outer signs showed little damage, but he’d like to strap Wilson to a MRI table to be sure.

Wilson stood face forward under the lens of House’s blue-eyed scrutiny but his eyes glanced away. He was lost in misery, and wished it were just some nightmare he would soon wake up from. House’s concern wasn’t registering as his defenses were crumbling. He barely had the will to fight back the sting of tears.

House knew.

He gripped the bottle of bourbon tighter, and pulled his hand away from House, balling it into a fist.

Meanwhile, House moved as close as he could into Wilson’s space. They were competing for the same air. He was going to provoke a response as only he knew how. “Huh, Jimmy? Don’t pretend I’m not here. The pills. The alcohol. Those aren’t just for pain. They’re to help you forget about me. Admit it, you missed me, didn’t you? Didn’t you, Jimmy? Admit it! Admit it! Admi—“

A more visceral response overrode Wilson’s defenses. With a feral roar, the arm holding the bottle flew up in the air, and without thinking, he forgot his left leg had a mind of its own, and couldn’t compensate for the swing. He began to lose his balance and fall, but a strong hand gripped his left wrist, and an arm of iron tightened around his waist, not letting go.

Trapped in a snapshot of time they stood in an adversarial version of the pasa doble, or was it two lovers doing the tango?

Holding Wilson steady wasn’t easy for House either. His own weight was mostly on his left leg, and he braced it alongside Wilson’s right.

Speaking reassuringly House said gently, “It’s okay Wilson. I’m here. I’m not letting go.” And he didn’t, until the body he was supporting shifted and balanced, and was no longer dependent on his hold. He wanted to turn the grip into a hug that would melt into a kiss, but knew the exile wasn’t ready. Taut muscles barely surrendered under his touch.

The thaw was slow. Wilson gave in a bare minimum. He couldn’t move, but he stared at the scruffy long face, and drank in the blue eyes no other thirst could fill. He couldn’t stop himself from asking. “How’d you know?”

“About the leg? After the conference, I saw you at the airport.”

Wilson felt some relief. So, House did find out recently, but still he didn’t understand, “The airport?”

“I saw you stumble when that jerk cut you off. That puppy, West,” House didn’t miss a shadow of discomfort pass over the slightly flushed features, “friend, or whatever euphemism you use, he anticipated that you’d trip as soon as that bozo stepped in front of you. He knew you wouldn’t be able to stop mid-stride. And, then your left leg buckled.

“Even if I’m not a personal fan of physical therapy, I am a doctor, and understand the workings of a prosthesis.”

“Something, you’d never consider for yourself,” Wilson bit out. Finally stepping away from House, he moved back to the great room and chose to pull out a dining room chair, placing it well away from the table, physically isolating himself.

House followed Wilson out, and was worried. He expected to provoke a cathartic reaction. Maybe he should have let the bottle fly.

Instead, Wilson’s fear and self-loathing spread out across the room, separating the two of them as if the earth cracked open and an abscess formed, creating a granddaddy of a Grand Canyon between them.

House limped to the sofa. He’d pushed enough buttons for the time being. “Is that what the silence was about for all these years? You didn’t think I’d understand?”

“How could you?” Wilson was way out of his comfort zone, but shrugged. “So you had most of the answers before you came. Why did you bother? You needed to confirm that you’re right? Allow me to make your day and tell you that you are. You solved the puzzle. Now go."  
   
House stood up, pacing as he began ranting and mimicking Wilson, “'Go! Go! You’re right, House. You solved the puzzle, now go!' I came hundreds of miles out of my way to see you. Broke into your apartment so there would be no way for you to avoid a face-to-face, and that’s all you have to say?! You know, sometimes you’re a damned idiot. Do I have to explain everything to you?” House was exasperated.

“Since I’m an idiot, yes. I suppose you do. I’m out of practice in interpreting convoluted Housian logic.”

Only someone like House would be ashamed of what he was about to say as he looked down and studied his shoes, “I was worried about you. That you might have cirrhosis, and why your leg was amputated.” He lead with his worst worry, “Was it a bone cancer? Chondrosarcoma? Is that why you wanted to leave Princeton? Hide away like a sick dog?”

It surprised Wilson to realize how much House really cared. He’d forgotten that he could at times.  Briefly rubbing his neck and casting another look toward the kitchen, he shook his head, “God, no. That’s all I needed. Chemotherapy on top of everything else.”

For the second time that day, House felt his muscles unknot. He noticed Wilson’s hands trembling. “Why don’t you get yourself a drink and tell me what happened.”

House watched as Wilson headed for the kitchen, betraying a slight limp. There was the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing, and after a while, he returned with half the contents of the bottle missing and two more beers in his hand.

Wilson went over to the couch, and before sitting down, offered House one, but it was waved away. Placing the bottles on the coffee table, the oncologist chose a spot at the other end of the couch.

“If you must know,” Wilson began, years of harsh sarcasm took a back seat as he slid into a renewed version of the old banter, “and, I can see there’s no way in hell that you’re ever going to leave unless I tell you…”

A trace of acid still crept into the speech, “Actually, you’re going to appreciate this more than I ever did.” Wilson’s fingers fanned out as he explained. “I slipped and fell, went into the hospital for knee surgery. Malignant hypothermia was triggered by the anesthetic, and didn’t show up until I was in recovery.”

“Your leg developed compartment syndrome.” House reasoned along, and added gently, “No one suggested a fasciotomy?”

“No, House. The doctors didn’t take into consideration how cute it would be if we had matching scars. Too bad Cuddy wasn’t there. Your curse might have been my blessing.”

“We could debate that.” House interrupted, regretting his reflexed response toward his infarction the second it left his mouth.

Wilson didn’t argue the point, “I suppose we could, now that I’m intimately experienced with all the numbers on the pain scale, but why bother? I’ll concede that you were the first to discover ‘ten,' and visited it more often than I.

“Anyway,” Wilson opened the second beer and continued, “I was still sedated, and muscle death progressed too far and too fast,” maintaining a calm voice as if talking about one of his patients. “I reviewed the file later. There was nothing that could have been done.”

Always at a loss as to what to say at times like these, House hit upon the right thing, “I’m sorry, Wilson.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Neither one talked. After a while they both were startled to hear the stereo sound of rattling pills punctuate the air as each decided they needed a painkiller.

House waved his bottle in the form of a toast before returning it to his pocket.

Wilson responded, “This beautiful pain free moment brought to you by the makers of Vicodin.”

Heaving a sigh, Wilson stood up and stretched. In some ways he wanted to talk. Talk the night away about what was going on in House’s life and back in Plainsboro, but now that House got what he came for, it would be best to say goodbye and not open any more old wounds. “So, are we done here?”

“You still haven’t offered me any of that Chinese food. It’s stinking up your whole apartment, and the last thing I ate was a pack of airline peanuts. Wrapper and all.”

Knowing, what he’d brought home was not enough for the two of them, Wilson reached for his phone and began calling the Royal Palace for take out. As he went down his phone list, it struck him. “You called me after the conference?”

“You’re doubting your cell phone?”

“No. No. The messages accidentally got erased before I had a chance to listen. That’s all.”

Nodding, House replied, “Sure. Deleting two messages. It must have been easy to make that kind of mistake…for West.”

A cheerful woman’s voice came through the speaker, and Wilson let the subject drop as he ordered everything that House liked, including some cans of soda that House was signaling for. He told the hostess there would be a big tip if the food arrived hot and fast.

* * *

The evening progressed better than either of them hoped; however, there was an awkward gap while waiting for the food. House filled it up by making himself at home and turning on the TV.

They ate mostly in comfortable silence. Feasting on the food spread out over the coffee table. Swapping and eating directly from the boxes with chopsticks.

Wilson guiltily sipped a third beer as he ate, and watched House down a Coke.

“You don’t drink?”

“Nothing with alcohol.” House hated talking about that part of his life, but it was time to be honest. “It got out of control after you left.” He kept his eyes downcast. “It wasn’t ruled malpractice or negligence, but more than my normal share of patients died. I was having blackouts, and I couldn’t think fast enough to save them. There were lawsuits. Cuddy knew my game was off. She threatened to fire me if I didn’t get help. I’ve been dry for almost five years.” As an afterthought, “And cut down on my meds too.” When he looked up, he was surprised to see Wilson was wiping at his eyes.

“Hey, snap out of it Wilson. There are sadder stories everyday in AA.”

“No. You don’t understand, House. I suspected you were having blackouts. I actually hoped you were having them, because it would explain a lot. You were drinking heavily on and off before I left, remember? I think you had one or two while we were together. It-it’s just that…I called you.”

“Fuck, Wilson. When?” House asked. He was afraid of this.

“Shortly after the surgery, before I was strong enough for PT. I was in pain, and missed you.” Wilson paused before continuing and laughed. "Yeah…yeah, thought I could throw a party where we could to drugs and drink together. My treat of course."

“Wilson…”

“Downed a couple of pills with half a bottle of scotch to convince myself that just because good old Greg House would rather die than have his own leg chopped off, he would still be willing to see his ex-partner without feeling repulsed.”

“No. I’d never feel that way.”

“No? We talked, and then I never heard anymore from you.”

“We spoke?”

“Yes. I didn’t get it at first. You actually listened sympathetically as I told you what happened. You said exactly what I needed to hear at the time.” The hand made another brief pass across the eyes. “Said you would be out on the next flight…I was damned scared to see you, but at the same time, couldn’t wait. But, I did. I mean wait. I waited and waited, and you know what?"

“I didn’t show?”

“Oh, you heard this story before? I hope I’m not boring you?”

“There were a lot of mixed connections for me at the time. I told you. Blackouts. I never meant for that to happen. If I could do it over—“

“Something else would louse us up. We never get our timing right, do we, House? I wasn’t there for your infarction or when you were shot, and you were busy drinking yourself into oblivion when I needed you most.” Shrugging and glancing away, “Karma’s a bitch.

“Hey! Why so glum? I gave you every benefit of the doubt.” There was another cold bark of laughter. “I was just that desperate. I was convinced that you couldn’t get away because of some patient who had blood pouring out of every orifice. I wouldn’t consider it could be any other reason. I called again, and you swore up and down that you were coming without fail. That you had the ticket in your hand…”

A knife in his gut couldn’t feel any sharper than Wilson’s breezy narration. House could only say, “Shit, Jimmy…”

Hands in the air, “What are the odds? Calling while you were on another bender? And hell no! Don’t ‘Jimmy’ me. I swore I never wanted to hear that name again. Especially from you.” Wilson’s voice broke.

"Ji--Wilson. Look at me. You must believe that I intended on coming out, but I was so fucked up at the time." House leaned over the arm of the sofa, and picked up his knapsack. Unzipping one of the pockets, he pulled out a worn airline ticket and placed it in front of the oncologist.

“House? You bought a ticket?”

“Check the date. After I returned to my apartment from rehab, I found this lying on top of some clothes in a dresser drawer, but I couldn’t remember why. I must have erased your calls from my cell phone, so I had nothing to track back. I thought maybe I got some crazy idea to go out and see you. Beg you to come back.”

The words gave Wilson pause, “And, why didn’t you?”

"Thought the booze was making decisions for me when I bought the ticket. When I sobered up, it didn't make any sense. Why would you have me? You just left.

“Jimmy?” House slid closer on the sofa. “I want to make amends for hurting you, and I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”

There was still little warmth emanating from the oncologist. “Sure, House, and I’m happy for you. Congratulations. No more need to be needy. Cleaned up your act without me.”

House was dismayed. Wilson spoke several times tonight with uncustomary brittleness. He wouldn’t believe the man could change that much if he hadn't seen it for himself.  
   
“Self-destruction isn’t the same if there’s no audience. I had to change if I wanted to survive. I became sober, and discovered that I could overcome my addiction, but with you out of my life, all I had to look forward to was going into the hospital every day. I existed, but existing isn’t the same as living…Jimmy.” House touched Wilson’s chin and ran his finger down the jaw until he cradled the base of the neck. “You’ve got to believe me.”

Turning toward House, Wilson couldn’t miss a quality to House’s look, his eyes, and his voice. He was never more sincere or vulnerable. Wilson instinctively understood. The core of ice was melting within him, and he in return stroked House’s stubbled cheek, and squeezed a shoulder. “Yes. I do.”

House pressed his case, and drew Wilson into his arms, saying quietly, “I’ll always need you.”

* * *

The two men talked well into the night, and it soon became clear to them that it was too late for House to go to a hotel. They discussed sleeping arrangements, and Wilson offered his bed, saying the sofa in the living room would be fine for him. House wanted Wilson back in his life, and he could sense Wilson wanted it too, but was hesitant. On the whole, he was pleased with the inroads he made. Given time, he was confident he could win him over.

Holding House's knapsack in his hand, Wilson looked uncomfortable. “Give me a minute to grab something to sleep in and my crutches, and the bedroom is all yours. I’m off tomorrow, so I’ll find a hotel room for you then, unless you’re going right back.”

House was pleased to see the brown eyes sparkle when he said this was an extended visit. Yes. All he needed was time.

When House was ready to go to bed, he came out in his boxers, hoping to coax Wilson to join him, but the man was sitting fully clothed on the couch drinking another beer and refused the offer. “I need time to think.”

There was going to be a lot to overcome and overlook in the next few months, but gamblers always say the odds are with the ‘House,’ and he was sure luck was on his side this time. He would bet on it.

* * *

When House was alone in Wilson’s bedroom, he permitted a small smile to form on his lips as he surveyed the room. The layout and furniture was similar to his own apartment. Hell, he’d noticed the same about the furniture arrangement in the living room. _Well, whadya know? Wilson liked a cocoon too. _

Stretching out under the covers, House didn’t think there was much possibility of sleep. There was so much to think about. He couldn’t get over how much Wilson had become a cosmic pain in the ass.

The biggest surprise was the sharp words and quick rebuffs, but the chocolate brown eyes reflected embarrassment almost immediately.

Toward the end of the evening, Wilson snapped back at him not to expect pancakes in the morning. House answered by offering to treat him to a meal when they decided to go out. Looking ashamed, he began stuttering, “It-its just been a long…oh hell, I’m s-sorry.”

Wilson reminded him of a captured wild pinto stallion. Running along the perimeter of the corral in endless circles, looking for a break in the fence to escape. Eyes flashing fear every time someone got close. With his secrets blown, Wilson wasn’t just thrown physically off-balance, but emotionally. On the cusp of needy and to be needed, Wilson had to learn how to trust him again.

* * *

Truth be told. Neither man could sleep. Each listened for sounds of the other stirring. Their minds churning. Thinking about what they said. How they could have expressed themselves better. What they wanted and didn’t want to say the next morning.Trying to recapture the sensations of when they touched.

Wilson heard the wooden bedroom door protest as House thumped out to use the bathroom.

House heard the lone footfall and the twin thud of rubber tipped crutches as Wilson maneuvered down the hall for his own pit stop.

On Wilson’s third trip, House was losing resolve. He felt like a bandit waiting in the dark to waylay a stagecoach. When Wilson next passed by his door, he considered tossing his vial of pills against the wall and then manufacturing a moan that would bring Wilson bursting into the room to help him, and then, and then…House shook his head and leaned back on the pillows. _He was pathetic._

It was nearly dawn when he heard Wilson traveling to his end of the galaxy where there was plumbing, and then the sounds receding as the man returned to his couch.

Abruptly, the air resounded with a thump against the outside of his bedroom wall and a clatter of metal striking the hardwood floor. He got up and quickly found his cane in the twilight as he heard a grunt, and then a muffled groan.

Racing to the door, shouting, “Jimmy!” He called out as he turned into the hall “Are you alrigh--?”

_What the fuck! _House stood with a hand on his hip. There was enough grayish light filtering from the bathroom window to see Wilson balancing against the wall, holding his crutches in one hand.

“Hey, Greg. Did I scare you?" He beamed at his practical joke. “I just wondered how fast you’d come hobbling out here if you thought I needed help.”

House thought it would be best to see how fast he could wipe the grin off Wilson’s face, “Or, have a heart attack trying.”

The dark eyes registered concern, “Hell, I didn’t think…”

Stepping forward, House placed a reassuring hand on Wilson’s shoulder, “Good. You need to do that more often. Now, come to bed.”

Turning his back on the dark eyed man, House limped back toward the bedroom. He heard a soft, creaking tap-step following close behind.

* * *

Both were eager to once again satisfy and be satisfied, but as they feared, it wasn’t going to be easy. At first, grunts and muttered expletives split the liquid blackness of the night. ‘Damnit’ mixed with ‘Oh’ and ‘Fuck.’

Invisible tears spilled too.

But, they were determined, and slowed down to adjust to the rhythm and needs of their new relationship. Touching, tasting, caressing. Surveying and staking out their claims. 

House and Wilson geared down until they were muscle cars idling on a speedway. All calm and quiet as fingers sought the familiar texture of each other’s skin.

The pause did not last for long as motion and friction of the smooth as well as rough variety came together. Their breathing became ragged.

Something clicked between them. The hard flint of their desire ignited and brought warmth as well as light.

Boundaries blurred as their bodies gave off vaporous heat.

It wasn’t long before the only sounds were the universal language of whimpers and moans set off by primitive rocking.  Electric wildfire charged through their bodies as they tensed and shook, and delirious howls ushered from their lips, sometimes forming words. Sometimes no more than vowels that went up in pitch…

It made no difference who said what. If one said it, the other was playing the same symphony in his head.

A freefall to earth, they never knew when they found land. They drifted in each other’s embrace until they would be able to begin again. In between, they whispered back and forth words they never would say in front of others. Among confessions, promises and vows, they made an agreement.

No matter what the future held for them, they would never separate again.

* * *

The next day brought contentment and hunger. Hunger for food. All other appetites were satiated for the moment. It was late in the day when they finally considered leaving the bedroom.

They tried washing up together and jockeyed for bathroom space. Though they enjoyed rubbing up against each other, they had to grudgingly admit there just wasn’t enough room for canes, crutches and cripples to fit in the same small room without causing an accident.  
   
They took turns.

Wilson suggested a local bistro not far from where he lived, and House made good on his promise and paid for their meal.

And, Wilson’s drinks.

As soon as the waitress came over, Wilson asked for champagne. Quietly turning to House, he said. “You don’t mind, do you? I feel like celebrating.”

Noting the tremor was back. House didn’t say a word.

Throughout the meal they stuck to trivial topics.

Highly imaginative hamburgers graced their plates, but tasted better as House stripped away the extras. Of course, the fries on Wilson’s plate were crispier.

Wilson only needed two bloody Marys to make his food go down with gusto.

House kept his silence.

It was the in-between time, after lunch and before dinner when they finished. The staff was gearing up for the next rush, ignoring them for the most part. The waitress checked from time to time to see how they were doing. Wilson ordered an Irish coffee.

House already paid the bill, but said nothing as he dropped a twenty on the table.

The now steady fingers rearranged the salt and peppershakers, “Nikki, instead of the Irish, make it a double latte and I’ll take three sugars in it.”

House asked for a refill of the French roast.

Neither spoke until the coffee arrived.

Wilson cleared his throat, “It’s not gonna work, is it?”

“What do you mean?” House asked, not giving an inch.

The brown eyes looked everywhere but at the blue, "Everything was great this morning, but let's be practical. We live in different cities.

“Then, there's my…drinking.”

Sighing inwardly, House didn’t allow what he was thinking to show on his face. Wilson wasn’t admitting to being an alcoholic. Not even a drunk. It was going to take Time and Patience, and not a discussion centered on tough love. Maybe later.

As it was, House was dealing with his own demons. Watching Wilson drink wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to do. He needed to locate some local AA meetings while he stayed in Chicago. Wilson could come along or not.

As a maverick, House would never work through the traditional twelve steps, but found strength in hearing other's speak, reminding him of the slippery slope bourbon, beer, and scotch helped lubricate. As far as a higher power - without Wilson around, he learned to listen closely to his conscience.   
   
Not addressing the liquidity issue of their budding relationship, House moved on to the problem of the commute. He slid his hand slightly forward on the tabletop and touched fingertips to Wilson’s, “I’m not one for traveling. Airports are hell on cripples.”

Wilson snorted, “Third circle of hell.”

“Then I see we’re in agreement. You’ll move back in with me.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Wilson sat back startled in his chair. “That’s a big leap.” Secretly, he was warmed to hear the offer.

“How is it big? You don’t own the condo you’re living in, do you? And, from what Cuddy says, you and the Dean aren’t the bestest of buddies. It would be no struggle at all to pull up roots.”

Eyebrows raised a notch, “That would be two no's and a maybe.” Wilson returned a half-smile. “Rayburn would probably claim my resignation added five years to his life.”

“See? You’d be performing a miracle.”

“It would take a miracle for me to get another job. Jack made sure to spread it around about all my…bad habits. There’s no offers coming in.”

“There’s one. Cuddy. Remember her? The patron saint of misanthropic doctors? Seems you now qualify."

Wilson cocked his head expectantly, encouraging him to say more.

"She’s salivating to have her oncology department rated number one, but Brown’s nearing retirement, and if anything, he’s taking things easier, and isn’t keeping the department competitive enough. She would bring you on board for consultations and clinical trials."

“And you know this because…?” Wilson asked cynically.

“Because I called Cuddy while you were in the bathroom making yourself pretty.”

“It takes a lot longer than it used to.”

“I found you a job. I’m offering you half my bed. Don’t fish for compliments.” House sat back in his seat basking in the smile that was stretched over Wilson’s face. He was entirely too pleased with himself. “How soon can you pack up and move back to New Jersey?”

“A month.”

“Make it two weeks, and I’ll pay for your flight.”

“Gonna see if you can exchange that old ticket you’ve been carrying around for the last five years?”

“It’s worth a shot.”

“And if you can’t?”

“Cuddy will be receiving a very large invoice for tongue depressors when I submit department receipts for reimbursement."

Both were happy knowing not everything had changed as they contemplated the future.

"Get used to it, Wilson. We're gonna grow old together. One day we'll morph into little old ladies comparing aches and pains, operations, and denture cream products while playing mah jhong."

"Only, because you know I can beat you at poker."  Wilson shed his angst and joined in the banter.

"You'll be making us prune pudding for desert, and we'll be giving each other enemas as Christmas presents."

"Thank God, you didn't say Hanukkah. I could do without eight straight high colonics in a row."

An sly expression clung to Wilson's face.

"Gonna share your geriatric fantasy with me?" snickered House.

"Dentures? Think of the flawless blow jobs we could give each other," Wilson speculated.

"Providing we share each other’s Viagra." House began to smile, but noticed Wilson was already worrying about the future. “Now what?"

"Just imagining us…old and gray."

"Not an impossibility, Jimmy. If you take care of me, and I take care of you."

“Just promise me one thing.”

"What?"

“You’ll shoot me in the head if I ever start calling you 'honey.'”

“You can return the favor if I start calling you anything other than Jimmy, Wilson or 'idiot.'"

 

[ ](http://www.statcounter.com/)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue: Two years later there's another medical conference.

### Epilogue

.

“Hey, West! Wait up!”

A voice cut over the heads in the crowd and struck its mark. West recognized the deep-chested tone before turning around. He’d hoped to avoid such a meeting, but it wasn’t to be.

He saw Wilson standing near a short flight of stairs that separated the hotel’s conference rooms from the lobby.

Nodding curtly up at the oncologist, West waited for Wilson to head for the ramp off to the side, but was surprised to see him walk down the steps in a normal leg-over-leg motion, albeit slowly and gripping the brass rail for support.

He was further amazed to see how well Wilson appeared as he drew closer. Fit and trim. Eyes clear and bright. Puffiness and rosy blotches no longer obscuring distinct cheekbones. For a moment, he wondered if this was Wilson’s brother, but what would a bartender being doing at a medical conference?

Still, he couldn’t help but tense up. The last time they talked was two years ago, when Wilson dumped him for House’s phone number, and then for the actual grizzled man. It wasn't long before Wilson's resignation was the banner headline on the hospital grapevine. West kept to himself until Wilson gathered up his nameplate and posters and walked out the door.  
   
But he had to admit he took some consolation in seeing Rayburn’s reaction to Wilson's announcement. The director pouted and sulked for weeks.

Before Wilson opened his mouth, West took the initiative, "I see congratulations are in order. You're listed as head of oncology for Princeton-Plainsboro in this year's roster."

The approbation was swept away with a wave from Wilson's hand.

"West," said Wilson. "I caught your presentation on autoimmune and lupus. Brilliant. You gave the news crews enough sound bites to get the attention of the national media. Rayburn’s gonna explode with joy all over his imported antique paneling.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Warm praise from Wilson. Totally out of character.

There ought to be a law about falling under someone’s charm in less than ten seconds. After all this time, he should be immune to Wilson’s mojo.

“It will be yesterday’s news after your closing panel presentation tomorrow on cutting edge clinical trials.” West returned the compliment. In the last few months, he had learned how to take flattery to a new level.

“You’re right. You wouldn’t believe the offers rolling in from Hollywood just on the buzz alone. It will be this summer’s blockbuster,” Wilson deadpanned. “So how’ve you been?”

Glancing quickly at his watch, West answered, “Fine, but can’t talk to you now. I have to go, or I’ll be late to Heller’s seminar. We can catch up later.” Pleased with his diplomatic deflection, he felt guilty as Wilson nodded, looking disappointed, before he made a one-eighty and started walking away. With 4000 attendees, he thought it most unlikely that they would bump into each other again.

Best to keep a distance since they had both moved on.

“West!” There was a hand on his arm. He looked back at liquid brown eyes dripping with concern. West had never witnessed this before.

“Why are you limping?” Wilson asked softly.

“You mean my ankle? It's nothing.” West smiled wryly. “I was in Aspen this weekend skiing and did a helluva job spraining it. Gives me an excuse to keep my hotel mini bar stocked with ice.” West wanted to kick himself with his good foot. He managed to skim over two sensitive subjects in almost the same breath – skiing and drinking.

He inspected Wilson’s face for the trademark thunderclouds, but the man stood there displaying undisguised relief.

“Skiing? Wilson smiled ruefully. “This is a side of you I never knew. But I didn’t give you much opportunity, did I?” He suddenly became serious. “I left Chicago in such a hurry we didn’t have time to talk. Are you free tonight? I’d like to buy you dinner.”

Against his better judgment, West couldn't help but give Wilson a hard time. “Did I hear correctly? You want to buy _me_ dinner? As in, you’re picking up the check?”

“As in, ‘the treat’s on me.’ Yes. So I’ll meet you at The Oaks dining room off the lobby at eight?”

“What’s this? You know that’s not the coffee shop?” West had some misgivings about spending time together, but shrugged them away. Maybe this would help him let go of the past and move on to the next step in his life. “Well, I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to see you open your wallet for the world. I want to see the picture of Jack Benny in it, and watch the moths fly out.”

“You’ve heard of Jack Benny? That’s new.” It was Wilson’s turn to be mystified. “I can see we have lots to catch up on. How about getting together earlier at seven?”

* * *

As if on a first date, both arrived in fresh suits and ties, and a bit embarrassed to be caught showing up five minutes early.

The Oaks lived up to its name. Flickering tapers on the tables warmed the oak floors and paneling. The mandatory hunting scenes were spaced in pristine order around the walls, while crystal chandeliers highlighted the dazzle and gleam of goblets and silverware reposing on elegant tablecloths. A soft melody drifted over the diners from a disembodied string quartet.

When the maitre’ d asked if they wanted a booth, Wilson nodded that it would be fine. The sumptuous leather horseshoes were along the back wall and up a level. He managed the two steps with reasonable ease.

Before Wilson could spread his napkin over his lap, West was asking, “Hey, what’s with the prosthesis and the stairs?”

“I finally sprung for a microprocessor knee. Costs almost the price of an arm and a leg, or at least the price of my car.” Wilson buried himself in the menu after adding, “It was House’s idea.”

And a good one. He didn’t have to be as mindful when he walked, was less fatigued at the end of the day, and experienced less pain, which reduced his pain medication to the odd occasion. And an offshoot to those tangible benefits, it restored his self-confidence.

Of course, in return for giving in to House’s nagging about 21st century technology, he had to tolerate “bionic man” cracks, and no matter how well he functioned in bed, he had to endure digs about bionic cocks.

“You won’t ever need Viagra,” House leered.

This information he didn’t share with West.

The menus kept them busy until their drink order arrived. A chilled martini for West, and a squat liquor glass filled with ice cubes and club soda for Wilson.

“You, uhm…” West put down his cocktail, and wiggled a finger at Wilson’s drink.

“Yeah. I’m a recovering alcoholic. I’ve been dry for nineteen months.” It was still as hard to admit now, as it was the first time, but he felt he owed West that much after all the crap he’d given him for nearly five years.

“For what it’s worth, you look better,” West said. “You’re …different, too.”

“You mean I’m not the same asshole you remember? Look, Nate, I’m sorry about that. I was a real son of a bitch and you never deserved---“

Just then the waiter returned, asking if they were ready to order.

West chose a modestly priced entrée, a top sirloin, but Wilson wouldn’t hear of it, telling the waiter to make it a t-bone and bring all the fixings. He doubled up his own order, asking the waiter to delay preparing the additional meal until the end of theirs and packing it “to go.”

Another brief explanation. “I promised House a doggie bag.”

“House is at the conference?”

“Let’s say he’s in the hotel taking advantage of the amenities.” And snooping. Wilson could have sworn he caught from the corner of his eye someone limping past the entrance a minute ago.

“House did come down to see your presentation, and only made two barbs under his breath, so I’d say he was impressed with your diagnostic skills.”

West rattled the ice in his drink. “He couldn’t possibly object to the way I thoroughly tortured my patients.”

“No, that’s when he became quiet. Said he wouldn’t mind doing a consult with you.”

“He’s a hard act to follow,” West observed.

Wilson concentrated on rearranging the silverware. He couldn’t agree more. There was only one House. West didn’t come close, but no one could.

Most people still found House’s hospital persona abrasive, while Cuddy claimed there was an improvement. No one actually knew how different the man at work was from the man at home.

When they returned from Chicago, even Wilson was surprised to see a new side to House. A patient side.

More than a few mornings began with Wilson nursing a mother of a hangover, expecting House to voice his regret that he ever asked him to move back, but it never happened. Feeling guilty, Wilson vowed he’d stop drinking, only to break the promise by evening.

But one morning, he opened his eyes and discovered he was sprawled on the floor halfway between the couch and the hallway with no memory of what happened. His crutches in disarray not far from him. He got up and went to the bedroom and discovered House doubled over in agony, refusing help and not willing to explain what happened.

Nagging and coaxing bits and pieces of the story out of him, Wilson discovered he was the cause of House’s pain. He was too slobbering drunk to make it from the living room to the bedroom on his own, and asked House for help. But he was so unsteady, he lost his balance, falling against House and knocking him to the floor. To make matters worse Wilson fell right on top of him, grinding the scarred thigh into the unforgiving hardwood.

When House found enough strength, he abandoned Wilson to his drunken stupor, and tried to get his scorching pain under control from the safety of his bed.

Almost as distressing was the fact that Wilson hadn’t remembered any of it. He hovered over the white-faced man, attempting to check him over, but was helpless to do anything about House’s agony except bring him a heating pad. Climbing into bed, he tried to spoon next to him.

The calloused shell that had surrounded Wilson for the last five years cracked under the weight of his emotions along with his voice. Tears escaped as he repeated over and over, “House, I’m sorry. I swear, it won't happen again….”

The head twisted around and blue eyes stared back at him. When House squeezed his arm and began to speak, Wilson thought the words would ease his guilt, but House said tonelessly, “Don’t beg, and don’t swear about things you have no control over. Can you leave now? I need time alone, then we can talk.”

Those quiet words devastated and sobered him like nothing else could. He headed to the living room and tried to think calmly while fighting off rising panic. This second chance with House was the best thing in his life and he was drinking it away.

He didn’t wait for House to make the first move. He returned to the bedroom, and packed a bag, “Can we hold off on that talk? I spoke to Cuddy. I’m going into rehab.”  
   
He was gone for months, first detoxing from alcohol and painkillers, then learning new habits. He returned to House hoping that as soon as they embraced, his drunken behavior from that awful night would be forgotten.

House was waiting for him with open arms, but there was a blunt edge to his enthusiasm. From the hollow hug, Wilson knew there was no "get out of jail free" card that was going to let him off easy.

House insisted that they pick up where they left off and talk. They lay down ground rules. “You’re sober enough to listen now and know the difference between what you want and what you need.”

House was right. Wilson knew what he wanted, and it was House. They set about constructing a new foundation for their relationship, cautiously building, brick by brick, a new infrastructure that was stronger than ever before. They were even able to strike a balance where Wilson could enable House’s neediness more often than the other way around. Some therapists would claim it unhealthy, but it suited them like old slippers.

Wilson returned to the present when West cleared his throat. The server was preparing a tableside Caesar. Light conversation returned as they finished the tangy greens and moved on to devouring heifer-sized potatoes and elephant-proportioned steaks.

Other than the one sad, faraway look on Wilson’s face, West was impressed to see him so vibrant and interested. He asked questions about Trinity and what he was up to. He thought he’d successfully skated over the parts about his personal life, until Wilson just came out and stated a fact.

“I hear you’re in a relationship with Bruce’s son, Jason. Mazel tov.”

West almost choked on a mouthful of sautéed spinach.

A smile played around the corners of Wilson’s mouth, “Blushing becomes you, Nate. So it’s serious?”

West stopped himself from releasing an audible sigh. “Yes. This weekend Jason asked me to move out to Los Angeles. Says he has connections at Cedars-Sinai, and is setting up an interview.”

“You said yes, I take it.”

“I did.” West shrugged. “The long distance romance was getting hard on both of us.” He was struck by a thought, “Have you been speaking to Bruce?”

“I talk on the phone with her. She and House email.” The previously missing dimple, lost during the drinking years, was back and making an appearance as Wilson smiled smugly. “She says she can’t wait for the two of you to set up housekeeping. Then she can officially say you are her favorite daughter-in-law.”

Relaxing, West responded, “Not hard to be the favorite when she has only one son and seven daughters. She made me promise to share my meatloaf recipe with them.”

“Lucky women, or should I say, lucky husbands?” Wilson’s eyes sparkled.

They were laughing and trading gossip by the time dessert arrived.

“Bruce doesn’t like your successor,” West disclosed. “Says Pecota hides behind paperwork and isn’t a people person.”

“My people skills were nothing to boast about back then, either,” Wilson answered solemnly.

“You could have gone easier on the residents, but the patients didn’t suffer for it. She says Pete’s every move is based on dollars and cents. He refused to replace her broken electric stapler with a new one. Told her that a regular one would tone up her muscles and she’d lose a half a pound a year using it.”

“The man’s insane.” Wilson rolled his eyes. "He's lucky she didn't staple him to his office door. He’s gonna lose her.”

“All the other department heads are courting her. She has lunch with a different doctor every day.” West lowered his voice and spoke confidentially. “Orthopedics has a pool. Even I can’t pry out of her which department she’s interested in. I’m betting Rayburn grabs her up for himself. They’ve had some long lunches together.”

Wilson’s fingertips began bouncing against the table as he winked. “Hope you didn’t place too big a bet.”

“Holy crap! She told you and not me? I’m…I’m almost family.”

“But you’re not her employer.” Wilson was enjoying his private joke, but decided West should be the first to know. “House and I have been talking to her. She’s agreed to come work for the two of us. She’ll be submitting her resignation next week.

“Said working for me gave her a taste for the unpredictable. She’s disappointed that I’ve mellowed, but thinks House will make up for it. Besides, four of her girls live between New York and Maryland.”

Stunned but laughing, West shook his head. “Perhaps House will let me work on a case with him when Jason and I visit her at the holidays.”

When the check arrived, West made a grab for it, citing “old times,” but Wilson insisted.

“Listen, Nate. One steak dinner doesn’t make up for how badly I treated you while we were together. I want to make amends.”

A rectangle of paper materialized in front of him. It was a check.

“It’s for all the times you picked up my expenses.” Wilson proffered a humble apology. “As for our relationship, it can’t be measured with money. You were loyal and more than I deserved. I was a total jerk.” Blowing out a breath, he continued, “No. Make that a first-class fucker…when I was out of bed. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you….”

“Forget about it, Jimmy—” West froze. He’d slipped and used the dreaded J word, but Wilson didn’t bristle, only looked directly in his eyes waiting for an answer.

Nate placed his hand over his former lover’s, giving a gentle pat, and moved it away. “Don't make me out to be saint. My jealousy got the better of me, and it wasn’t all, ‘I give and you take.’ You gave me something I needed at the time - someone to take care of. And a lesson. A relationship needs equal footing between partners…and trust. When Jason showed up in my life, I was ready." He ripped the check into pieces and delivered the scraps to the owner.  
   
“There are no debts between us. Let’s call it even.”

The meal wrapped up soon after, with the men indulging in warm handshakes and a few quick cuffs to each other’s arms. They parted at the dining room entrance, comforted that they could look back at their relationship without any regrets or bitterness.

* * *

Even lugging a heavy shopping bag full of food for House, Wilson felt lighter. Not all his amends had gone so well, but this one meant a lot. Nate would always be special.

His sponsor had warned him, rejection should be expected. Some people would want nothing to do with him, and he should simply accept it. It wasn't an excuse to go on a bender.

At least his most important encounters went gratifyingly well. When he finally visited his parents, he did it with House by his side. The family knew he and House lived together before Chicago, but hadn’t exactly jumped with joy at the idea. But his parents gave House a warmer greeting than they gave him.

He thought he’d become impervious to awkward moments as he explained to his prickly and offended parents about his drinking and why he had stayed away for so long.

He was wrong.

It was harder than he could imagine watching tears spill from his mother’s eyes when she heard about his leg, or watching his father’s granite composure crumble just before he turned away with an excuse to get something out of the study.

He ended his confession by telling them that he and House had set up living arrangements again, and was dumbfounded when his parents championed the idea.

His father said, “So you aren’t a complete putz.”

And his mother hugged him and whispered in his ear, “I only want you to be happy.”

Walking out to the car, House summed it up. “You played that well, Jimmy. If you pushed the cripple card any more, they would have offered to throw us a destination wedding in Costa Rica.”

Wilson’s emotions had barely cooled down from the confrontation. He had only enough energy to shut House up with a passionate kiss.

The next time they all got together was to celebrate Passover at his parents' place. His brothers greeted them at the door, apparently told by his folks why he had avoided everyone. Ben said, "Look who’s here, everybody. The _Cast Away_ volleyball made it to shore.'”

“Thanks for replacing me as the black sheep of the family, bro,” Jonathan swung a genial arm around his shoulder. Turning toward House, he winked. "See you brought along your favorite shepherd.”

Since that holiday, they participated in one or two family events a year. Just enough to keep everyone happy, and prevent House from whining and asking Cuddy for clinic hours to get out of going.

* * *

The chime of the elevator roused Wilson out of his reverie as it arrived at his floor.

At the hotel room, he knocked instead of using his key card. An irritated voice called from inside, “What?”

“Room service. You called down earlier for Maalox, denture cream, and Preparation—“

Before he could get the “H” out of his mouth, there was a hand grabbing his tie and pulling him into the room.

“It’s about time. There better be more than prune whip in that bag.” House hustled the package out of his hand and looked inside before dropping it onto a small table.

Wilson eyed the flashy flat screen the hotel suite provided. He paused to take in the scenery. Two well-endowed women were back-to-back and straddling a man’s torso, holding him down to the bed. He was obviously happily aroused by his predicament.

“How can you think of food when you’re watching this?” He gestured at the TV.

“I’m starving, but not for what’s in the bag, you idiot.”

Wilson was immediately swept up in a searing, fiery kiss as he was captured in an iron-banded embrace. It was second nature for them to support each other with their good legs, so all he need do was supply the heat from his own desire.

* * *

_  
Passion engulfed them. It was deep. It was thorough. But it didn’t hold a candle to what they worked so hard to become in their relationship. Each one the half of a whole._

_Their mistakes were left behind in the past._

_They reveled in the present._

_And as to the future:_

_Neither could walk in the other’s shoes, but they would always follow in each other’s footsteps…_

_…because it would always lead them back to where they belonged--each other’s arms._

 

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